


If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita

by ShortInsomniac98



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Eventual Smut, Family, Ireland, Multi, Romance, Vikings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-04 22:08:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 48,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16797994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShortInsomniac98/pseuds/ShortInsomniac98
Summary: Ivar the Boneless is the brutal Viking warrior-ruler who was responsible for the founding of Dublin. After him, three of his sons were Kings of Dublin. History remembers these fierce men, while there is no record of a wife or mother. With this story, I have given Ivar a wife and his sons a mother, a young Irish woman called Ita. Also on FF dot net and Tumblr.





	1. 1

If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita

Chapter 1

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**In my studies of Viking history, I have read about how Ivar the Boneless was responsible for the founding of Dublin and that three of his sons were Kings of Dublin, being of both Norse and Celtic descent. As an Irish American who is also of Scandinavian descent, and a fan of History Channel's** _**Vikings,** _ **I am intrigued by that particular part of this history. However, in my readings, I never found mention of a woman anywhere; Ivar's wife and the mother of his children is never mentioned. So, with this story, I have taken it upon myself to bring such a woman to life. I call her Ita, and she is exactly the woman I would envision for the Ivar the Boneless portrayed in** _**Vikings.** _ **I hope you enjoy.**

* * *

The wind blew cold across the lake and Ita pulled her cloak tighter around herself to keep out the chill. Winter was nearing and if she didn't make it to the next village in time, she might die out there, sick and all alone, miles from home. She was the last of her village, the only one not to be killed by the illness that broke through only a few months before. Before her brother's death, however, he told her of an encampment of Norsemen; he knew they did not usually take to kindly to outsiders, and especially to Christians, but he also knew his little sister was strong enough and had enough wit about her to be able to earn their respect and maybe whatever semblance of hospitality they had in them.

She took one last look across the lake, to the cold, empty houses of her old home, where no children played, no old men told stories 'round the fires, and no women cooked up warm meals in their houses. Then she turned to look up the road ahead of her and she sent up a silent prayer to her silent God. Then she took her first step into the forest.

* * *

Thirty miles to the East, three brothers were bickering as brothers do, sitting around a fire near the outskirts of a tiny Norse settlement. The eldest of the three, a tall bearded man with long plaited hair, sat up straight, his arms crossed in front of his chest as he looked down at his youngest brother who sat on the ground, close to the fire. The third brother sat off to the side, listening as the two of them argued over some trivial subject, something to do with who should make the decisions, sometimes giving a word or two of his own opinion.

In truth, he was tired of this argument; it had been going on for years, and he wondered if it would ever end. He didn't care who was in charge, as long as he got his share of the winnings wherever they went. Had he gone with his eldest brother – not the one here, of course; there was another, who was off in some distant land probably having all kinds of adventures – he would not have been dealing with these two right now, or their childish arguments, but he stayed nonetheless. He began to wonder, briefly, why he had made that decision.

"Ubbe, are you not listening to what I am saying?" the youngest brother said. "You treat me like I am a child, like my ideas do not matter, when I have proven time and again that I am worthy of your respect. I should have more of a say in our plans."

"We need to wait, Ivar," the eldest, Ubbe, said with a sigh. "I know you are ready to attack, but you know there is no reason to yet. Waiting will not kill anyone, nor will it ruin our chances of attaining any goal. In fact, it will give us more time. Your problem is that you act without taking the time to think."

"That, I think, is why I am still alive," he returned.

"No, you are alive because Father did not kill you as a baby when he had the chance and Mother guarded you with every fiber of her being until she herself was killed," the quiet brother mumbled. "And because Floki took it upon himself to train you to be as crazy as he was. That, Ivar, is why you are still alive."

Ivar glared. "What was that, Hvitserk?"

"Nothing important," Hvitserk sighed. "Nothing important."

"It was quite a lot to be nothing important," Ivar said.

"I just meant that there are a lot of reasons you are still alive that have nothing to do with yourself," his middle brother said. "Yes, a lot of it does have to do with your quick decision making and the fact that you are mad, but it is mostly luck and the decisions of others."

"Right, and maybe my decision to wait this out could give you a few more weeks at least, brother," Ubbe spoke up.

"Oh, of course!" Ivar cried, annoyed, and pulled himself slowly to his feet.

"Where are you going?" Ubbe asked.

"To think," he answered, giving no other explanation, and trudged off toward the woods.

Hvitserk jumped to his feet to follow his younger brother, but Ubbe grabbed his arm to stop him, and he sat back down.

"Let him go," Ubbe said. "He's just going to sulk. He is fine. He'll be back."

* * *

Nearly six hours later, Ita was feeling very weak. She had no clue how far she had traveled. Twelve miles at least around the lake, she knew, but beyond that, she did not know. It could have been a hundred with how much her lungs stung and from the stabbing pain in the muscles of her legs. Still, she pressed on, telling herself with every step that she only had one mile to go. That was a promise she had been making to herself, in fact, for the last ten miles. She stopped and dropped her leather sack of valuables and small belongings, the last remnants of her old life, bent over, put her hands on her knees, and vomited. Her breath shuddered and she straightened herself out, trying to convince herself she was fine despite her cold sweats and the persistent swimming in her head and stomach. She had beat the plague which had killed her people, but its symptoms still lingered, especially when she overexerted herself. Ita grabbed her pack and swung it back over her left shoulder, and she kept walking.

A quarter mile or so after her brief pause, she thought she smelled smoke, and she began to walk faster, looking around for the source. That must have meant she was close to the village, or at least to a traveler who could tell her how to get to the village. She could have run if her feet would have carried her that fast. Instead, she loped clumsily along until, ahead of her and about twenty yards to the right of the path, she caught sight of a fire, and she began to slow her gait to a casual walk, hoping she could pretend she had happened upon this scene.

When she reached the fire, she found that it was tended by a lone man in dark clothing. She watched him from a distance, hidden behind a tree, appraising him to see how dangerous one lone Viking could be before she approached. His face was dirty, as were his clothes, which looked as though they were designed for some kind of battle. He didn't look at all like the men in her village. He looked bigger, stronger, and somehow darker despite the fact that he was just as pale, if not paler, than she was. On his hands were a pair of thick leather fingerless gloves and on his legs were hunks of metal which looked completely foreign to her. To his left, leant against the log upon which he sat, his legs outstretched in front of him, were a long sword and a small, compact ax.

He was armed, but would he harm her? It was a risk she had to take.

She stepped out of her hiding place and walked carefully toward him, making no sound as she trod over the dead, damp leaves.

" _Dia duit,_ " she said softly in her own tongue, trying not to startle him, not knowing what could happen if she did.

He looked up at her and cocked his head to the side, not understanding.

" _Dia duit_ ," she said again. "Em… _cad is ainm duit?_ "

He shook his head but motioned for her to come closer. Hesitantly, she did.

"Ita," she said, pointing to herself. Then she pointed to him and gave him a questioning glance.

"Ivar?" he said, almost as though he questioned the fact.

He lifted the cup he had in his hands, offering it to her, and she took it without so much as a question and drained it, grateful for something to quench the thirst she'd had since leaving home. He chuckled as he watched her carefully and took the cup back when she was done.

" _Go raibh maith agat,_ " she said, and laughed a little at the confused look on his face.

He really didn't understand. Perhaps if he spoke, they could try to understand one another, but the most he had given her was his name and a cup of stale wine.

" _Dia duit,_ " she said again, and he thought he understood this time.

" _Heil,_ " he said in his own tongue. "Eh, _dia duit?_ " He thought he knew what it meant then, but he wanted to ask. He just didn't know how.

She laughed as she lowered her hood, revealing hair as orange and wild as the flames by which he was warming himself. "Of course," she said in his tongue, albeit with her own accent, which sounded strange to him. "Norse. Why didn't I think of that? I'm sorry."

"You know my language?" he asked, shocked. "Who are you?"

"I told you my name, Norseman," she said. "It's Ita."

"Hm," he nodded, and he looked her up and down like some predatory animal as she stepped around to his other side. "That doesn't tell me how you can understand me."

"Travel," she said. "Well, my father's travel, not mine. He lived in Northumbria for a time, and he knew a few Norsemen."

"Oh, did he?" Ivar said, intrigued and mildly angered as the image of King Aella, blood eagled in front of him years before, passed through his mind. He had been there, and he didn't remember any Celts.

"It was a long time ago," she said carefully, remembering what her father had said about the relationship between the Norsemen and the people of Northumbria.

His eyes followed her as she continued to circle him, intrigued by her slow, graceful movements, but still noticing the slight limp she had on her left side and the way she was favoring her left side altogether, not just the leg.

"Sit," he said, offering her a spot beside him on the log, and she did, sitting the opposite way as him, keeping her left side away from him and her back to the fire; he noticed this and a confused smile began to play at the corners of his mouth. "Are you not afraid, woman?"

"No," she answered without hesitation.

"And why not?" he asked almost sharply. "I would think if I were a woman and I happened upon a Viking in the woods, I would be quite terrified."

"Yes, well I have happened on a lone Viking, and a crippled one at that," she said cockily.

His eyes widened in anger and his lip curled up in disgust at her impudence. But something in him told him not to act; for once, Ivar the Boneless felt he should wait and think things through before acting.

"What makes you think I am crippled?"

"I don't think anyone, even a Viking, would wear such heavy, inefficient things on his legs if he did not need to," she said, glancing down at his leg braces. "I assume they are to help you stand. And I see you've concealed a walking stick of some kind under that blanket." She pointed to his other side. "Perhaps it is a staff, or maybe a crutch. I am not sure, but I know what it is for."

He blinked a few times. She was a bitch, but she was a smart bitch.

"Something tells me I could outrun you if I needed to," she smiled; something in that smile seemed sweet, but there was more to it than that.

"I am a fierce warrior," he said. "I am ruthless, brutal!"

"I never said you weren't, Viking," she said, scrutinizing him again. "Just that perhaps I could get away before you could kill me."

Without warning, he grabbed hold of his ax and swung it at her, stopping just before it made contact with her head. Not because he hadn't truly wanted to hit her – no, it was because in an instant, she had produced a sword from beneath her heavy cloak and stopped it abruptly. Then she disarmed him, knocking it out of his hands, and she took it for herself, depositing it quickly on the ground to her left, out of his reach, the blade of her sword on his neck until she was certain he wouldn't try anything like that again. When he realized what he had almost done – and what she had done – his mouth fell open, but no words came out. He pushed the sword away, shook his head, and he let out a surprised laugh; something about it sounded a bit impressed, even respectful. She smirked as she re-sheathed her sword and pulled the cloak back over it.

"You bitch," he chuckled.

"I suppose I'll take that as a compliment," she said.

He nodded. "Give me my ax."

"Why would I do that? You almost killed me!" she cried.

"Because I want it back," he said. "You just showed me I should not meddle with you. I will not attempt to harm you again. Trust me."

"Take me to your settlement and you can have it back," she said.

"Why would I do that?" he asked.

"Because I need somewhere to go, and I think I could be of as much aid to your people as your people could be to me," she reasoned.

He considered it; she had proven her skill with a blade only minutes after meeting him. Perhaps she could be a good shield maiden. Or at least a very useful slave, he thought fleetingly as he studied her again.

"Fine," he said. "I'll take you with me."

He snatched the blanket off of his crutch and folded it messily, then he tossed it to her. She caught it and tucked it under one arm, watching him intently as he gathered his things, which he shoved into a bag, tucked his crutch under his arm, and stood slowly, not without trouble.

"Do you need help?" she asked, seeing his struggling.

"No," he spat. "I'm fine."

With his free arm, he dumped a bucket of dirt onto the fire, putting it out, and he tossed her the bucket.

"Make yourself useful," he said.

She raised an eyebrow at him and leant down to pick up his ax and tuck it into her belt under her cloak. He watched her do this anxiously and looked away momentarily.

"Please," he added quietly.

* * *

With how slow he walked, it took nearly two hours to get back to his people's settlement, though it was only about four miles away. Along the way, he told her he was a prince, that he should have been king, but that after his father's murder, things had gotten very complicated. She didn't know if she believed him, but she didn't argue. He asked about her life, and she told him the truth: that her life was very simple, that she was the daughter of a sailor, having been raised by her mother and older brothers, but that her entire village had been killed off by a disease that no one had any experience with and they didn't know how to treat. She had survived, though, when everyone else either died or left before they caught the illness.

When they reached the edge of the settlement, two guards let them through, greeting Ivar with mixed fear and respect and eyeing her suspiciously. Instinctively, she stuck close. If he'd been a stronger, more able man, she likely would have held his arm or the furs he used as a cloak. Instead, she just kept close, not letting him get more than half an arm's length away from her.

"When we get to my house, you will see my brothers," he told her under his breath, "and their wife."

"Wife?" she asked. "They have only one between the two of them?"

"Yes."

She thought it strange, but said nothing.

"She is a whore," he said. "She has slept with all my brothers, and tried to sleep with me."

Something in his tone told Ita he wasn't telling the whole truth, but she had no doubt that there was at least some truth to his story. If a woman was willing to have two brothers for husbands, she might have been willing to do what he said.

"She was a slave until Ubbe married her," he went on. "I do not talk to her, and I would suggest following suit. But of course, you can do what you wish."

He took her to the open door of a larger house at the center of the settlement and paused just outside, looking at her nervously.

"Ivar?" she said, sensing this anxiety.

"Em, let me do the talking, all right?" he asked. "At least at first. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she nodded, and he led her in.

Inside, she saw two men in two separate chairs by a fireplace, they both looked at Ivar and his new companion with confusion and awe. There were furs on the floor, acting as rugs. A dog sat in a corner, and along the back wall was a table, at which a woman was sat, eating something from a bowl. It smelled good to Ita, who hadn't eaten in nearly three days. Still, she kept close to Ivar as he confidently walked back to the table, barely acknowledging the woman, and dropped his bag onto the table just inches from her bowl. He threw his fur down in a chair and took the blanket from Ita and put it there with it. The bucket, he deposited in the corner across from the one where the dog sat.

"Come with me," he whispered, and nodded for her to follow him over to the two men by the fire, who she assumed were the brothers he had mentioned.

As they got closer, she saw the older of the two look at her face and her red hair curiously. The eyes of the other looked her up and down almost lecherously, becoming more and more predatory by the second, like a vulture who has found a dying animal. Something told her to be more scared of that one.

"Who is she?" the elder asked.

"A Celtic woman I met in the woods," Ivar said. "Her name is Ita."

"She is very beautiful," the vulture said. "Is she your slave now?"

Ivar did not answer, and Ita looked to him expectantly, wanting him to answer.

"I would love to borrow her sometime," he continued, and he stood to observe her more closely.

Ita took a step back and touched Ivar's hand nervously. For the first time, his brother's behavior toward women truly began to worry Ivar.

"She can understand you, Hvitserk," Ivar said.

"That will make things so much easier," he laughed, touching her face.

She turned her head, and he came even closer, leaning in so his face was just millimeters from hers. He licked his lips and tried to kiss her, but she ducked away again. It had now become something of a game for Hvitserk, who now grabbed her left arm. He did kiss her this time, forcefully, and she cried out as she struggled to get away. She pushed him away and punched him hard in the jaw. At the table, the blonde woman's eyes widened for a moment before she went back to eating, deciding it best to stay out of whatever was happening by the fireplace. Hvitserk looked as though he wanted to hit Ita back, but the other brother grabbed him suddenly and threw him back into his chair, giving him a warning look.

"What are you thinking, Hvitserk, you idiot?" the eldest said. "She is Ivar's if she is a slave, and if she isn't, then you better beg forgiveness for what you just did."

"She is not a slave," Ivar said finally. "I want her trained as a shield maiden."

"You what?" the other men said in unison.

The woman at the table looked up again, and Ita looked to her. The woman gave her a sympathetic look and a small smile. Ita tried to smile back, but she was still in shock.

"Yes," Ivar said. "She is very brave, and she knows how to use a sword."

"Are you certain, brother? She does not look like any shield maiden I've seen," the eldest brother said.

"Trust me, Ubbe, she will make a good warrior," Ivar said.

"Can you show me, girl?" Ubbe asked her, keeping his voice low, hoping he didn't scare her as much as his brother had.

She swallowed hard and pulled her cloak back to retrieve her sword. When she did so, they saw Ivar's ax in her belt and they looked at her again in awe. Hvitserk looked at Ivar.

"She has your ax," he said. "Why?"

"She took it," he said. "I pulled it on her and she surprised me by getting that sword out and disarming me."

"Which reminds me," she said, handing the ax back to him, "here you go. You kept your end of the deal; now I'm keeping mine."

"So she does understand," Hvitserk said, impressed.

"Thank you." Ivar put his ax back into his belt and gave her a little smile, at which Ubbe and Hvitserk exchanged a look of mild surprise.

* * *

That evening, Margrethe, the woman who Hvitserk and Ubbe shared, made Ita a bed by the fire and cooked her a meal before letting her rest. They spoke a little, and Ita found that she was not quite as bad as Ivar had made her out to be. In fact, she seemed quite nice, even if she probably was a whore. Ita was grateful for her hospitality, and she thanked her profusely as she laid down in the pile of furs and blankets.

"You are quite welcome, Ita," Margrethe said with a smile. "You have had a very long day. Sleep well."

"Thank you," Ita said, yawning.

Margrethe simply smiled and went to her own bed in a separate room. At the table at the back of the room, the three brothers sat, talking quietly amongst themselves.

"You were right," Ubbe said to Ivar. "She is very proficient with a sword."

"I told you," Ivar said proudly.

"She is good. She beat me seven out of ten times," he said. "Her techniques are a little different from what I am used to, but she is still very good. With a little training, I can see her being a fine warrior."

"She would be a good one," Ivar smiled.

"You seem very impressed with this woman," Ubbe said, his eyebrows raised.

"Well that is because I am," Ivar said. "She knows how to fight, and she can speak our language as well as we can."

"She is beautiful," Hvitserk said with a mouthful of food, reiterating his first impression of her. "Do you see that as well, brother?"

"Is she?" Ivar asked, his tone a bit higher than normal. "I hadn't noticed."

Hvitserk smirked and shook his head once as he took another big bite of the meat he was eating.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**In this chapter, I added a bit of the Irish language, and one word of Old Norse. It was only natural to me (the Irish, not the Old Norse – I had to Google that part), so for those of you who did not understand, here are some translations, if you couldn't guess what Ita was saying and how Ivar responded:**

_**Dia duit –** _ **Hello (Irish, when spoken to one person)**

_**Cad is ainm duit?** _ **– What is your name? (Irish, when spoken to one person)**

_**Go raibh maith agat –** _ **Thank you (Irish, when spoken to one person)**

_**Heil –**_ **Hello (Old Norse, when spoken to one woman)**


	2. 2

If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita

Chapter 2

Ita spent the first few weeks in the Norsemen's settlement in bed. She had hoped to conceal her illness from them until she got better, but when she awoke the morning after her arrival, her head was spinning and so it seemed was the room. The dim yellow glow of the dying fire lit her way as she stumbled across the floor, uncertain of which way she was going, but glad she had made it to the door in time to vomit in the dirt outside rather than on the floor of her kind hosts' home. She held herself up with one arm against the wall and sobbed as her head pounded and she shivered and fell onto the ground in front of her, surrounded by the cold, wetness which was everywhere. It had rained the night before and there was still a gentle, steady mist falling. Water clung to her hair and her clothes, and it burned and stung her skin in the frigid wind.

It was Hvitserk who found her after an indeterminable amount of time when he finally woke up and came out to piss. He didn't know how long she could have possibly been sitting there, leant up against the outside wall next to a puddle of vomit, and when asked much later, she couldn't remember how long she had been outside before she was found. He picked her up and carried her small, light body back into the house and deposited it again in front of the fire on the pile of furs and blankets where she had spent the night. Her dress was soaked through with a long streak of vomit down the front of it. He knew she would never get warm again with that on, so he tore it from the neck all the way down to the hemline and pulled it off of her; he covered her hastily then with one of the furs.

"Wake up," he said, to no effect. "Ita, wake up."

She was still unconscious, or, at least, half conscious. Every so often, he would see her try to open her eyes, only to have them to fall shut again, and she would groan or let out a soft whimper or sob as she curled up into herself. After a moment, he gave up trying to talk to her and left her. Hvitserk rushed into his brother and Margrethe's bedroom without knocking, slamming the door open against the wall with a loud _bang._ They jolted awake and looked at him like he had gone mad. In fact, he looked quite like he _had_ gone mad as he began searching through the trunks and under the bed and in cabinets frantically, leaving clothing and other trinkets and things on the floor everywhere he looked.

"What are you doing, Hvitserk?" Ubbe asked groggily.

"I need a dress," the younger man said, still plundering through their things.

"Isn't it a bit early to be playing dress up?" Margrethe teased with a tired giggle.

"Not for me," Hvitserk said. "For the girl."

"Why for the girl? What's happened to the dress I gave her last night?" she asked, sitting up and coming to stand beside him. "What did you do to her?"

"I didn't do anything to her," he said, agitated. "I found her outside, passed out and covered in vomit. Her dress was wet and soiled. She needs a new one."

Suddenly concerned, Margrethe pushed him aside and grabbed a wad of gray wool from the trunk he had been looking through, and she rushed out to where Ita lay by the fire followed closely by the two men. With their help, Margrethe dressed Ita and bundled her once more in the furs. Roused by the commotion, Ivar appeared at the threshold between his door and the main hall.

"What on earth has happened?" he asked, dragging himself toward them.

"Your little friend is sick," Ubbe said. "Hvitserk found her outside, freezing to death, soaked and covered in her own vomit."

"You poisoned her," Ivar said accusingly to Margrethe, who stared back at him scornfully but said nothing in return.

"Let's not go making accusations," Ubbe said, shutting Ivar down before he even got started. "You know as well as I do that that is not the case."

"Do I?" the younger man spat.

"If you don't, then you are far more stupid than I give you credit for," Ubbe scoffed. "I've seen this many times. When we come to a new place, the people will sometimes die of some illness or other before we ever even reach them. You said her village already perished but she seemed better. She obviously is catching a second wind of whatever they all had."

"Or it can happen the other way around; sometimes our men will fall ill as soon as we reach a new land, before we even encounter the people who live there," Hvitserk chimed in.

"Right," Ubbe agreed.

"I have seen it, too," Margrethe said, "with the slaves, all the time. Let's hope she is stronger than that."

Instead of arguing further, Ivar moved to sit beside Ita and he put a hand on her forehead to find it burning hot while the rest of her shook as though she were freezing still despite her skin that felt like fire and the heavy pile of furs and blankets on her. His face twisted into a look of confusion, which faded into worry, and after a moment, his face softened and he looked up at his brothers.

"Is she going to die?" he asked in a whisper.

They remained silent for a long moment, then Margrethe said, "Maybe not."

She began feeling Ita's face, her neck, her hands, tending to her with such maternal instinct and care that the three men had not seen in ages.

"Maybe? Can't you be certain?" he said.

"No one can be certain of anything except for the gods," she said, barely even looking up. "You know that. Just let me care for her and I will see what can be done."

* * *

For the next two weeks, day and night, Ita lay in front of that fireplace with Margrethe keeping watch over her by day and the men taking shifts to watch her by night. There was another woman there, too, but they had never been properly introduced as Ita was never fully aware of anything going on around her. The woman's voice was soft and she was so pale and beautiful, with the longest, waviest blonde hair Ita had ever seen; she thought the woman must have been an angel sent by God to protect her and help her heal for nothing about her seemed very real to Ita.

The angel would assist Margrethe with feeding and cleaning Ita, and she even combed her hair and plaited it loosely to keep it away from her face. She would sometimes sit with Ita's head in her lap and sing to her or tell her stories all about adventures in far-off lands and brave, fierce men and beautiful ladies and victories followed by massive celebrations. Something about her seemed almost motherly and the comfort of her voice and her company made Ita feel a lot more at ease as she regained her health.

It all seemed a dream until finally, one night, Ita sat up. She still felt a little weak, but she was much stronger than she had felt since leaving home. Her head had stopped throbbing and the room was no longer spinning. Beside her in a chair, Ivar sat cleaning his fingernails with a small knife. He looked different than he had the afternoon they met. He wore a simple green shirt and brown trousers, and in place of the heavy metal braces he had been wearing, his legs were now tied together at the calves with strips of leather. When he saw her looking at him, he put the knife down and looked back at her.

"Well good morning," he said lightly. "How are you feeling?"

"Hungry," she said in response.

"Good," he said, sounding relieved. "That is a very good sign."

He was able to reach a table to his left and retrieve a plate of food that looked as though it had been picked at a bit but not really eaten. This he passed to her and she set it in front of herself on the pile of furs.

"Thank you," she said, and she started eating hurriedly, taking large mouthfuls of food at a time.

Ivar laughed. "Hey, maybe you should eat a little slower. You haven't had anything but broth and water in almost two weeks. Your stomach probably isn't very strong yet."

Guilty and embarrassed at his comment on her eating, she slowed down and he laughed again.

"I thought you were going to die," he said bluntly, and she paused to look at him nervously.

"Did you?" she whispered.

He nodded. "I was…concerned."

"Why do you care?" she asked as she chewed on a bit of bread.

He did not answer, so after a few seconds of silence, she returned her attention to the food in front of her. She couldn't decide if it was as good as her body was telling her it was, or if she was just so hungry that anything would have tasted good.

Ivar went back to scraping underneath his nails with the blade of his knife.

"Who is Ragnar Lothbrok?" she asked abruptly, making him startle.

Ivar accidentally cut too deep and broke the skin under his nail. He hissed at the sharp pain and wiped the blood away on his trousers. Then he paused and looked at her again, confused.

"My father," he said. "Why do you ask? How do you know his name?"

"There was a woman," she said as she looked around for something to wipe her hands on; finding nothing, she used the bottom of her skirt.

"Where?" he asked.

"Here," she said. "She stayed with me and told me stories."

"Do you mean Margrethe?" His eyebrows furrowed and he leaned forward, intrigued.

"No," she shook her head. "Another woman."

He thought a moment. "The wife of my half-brother came by a few times to help. Maybe you are thinking of her. What did she say about my father?"

"I…I don't remember…everything exactly," she said. "But it sounded like a wonderful story. He must have been a very great man among your people."

"I believe he was," Ivar said with a smile. "He was a brave and strong warrior, and a great king."

"She said that," Ita said, nodding. "But she also said that there were many against him."

"Any king has opposition," he said.

"This man, Ragnar, your father, he must have had more opposition than most," she said. "Am I correct?"

"I think you are," he said.

"She said he had many sons," Ita said.

Ivar nodded in confirmation. "Yes, five that we know for sure are his, and one daughter. There is another, a boy somewhere in England, who is believed to be his son."

"My," she mused, looking at something past him for a moment before looking at him again, a small smile on her pale, sunken face. She continued eating as she spoke: "My father had three sons," she said with a mouthful of food. "I was his only daughter, and I was the youngest. Like you, right? You are the youngest of your father's sons. The ones that are confirmed to be his anyway."

"Yes," he said. "And I grew up with three older brothers just like you did. My father wasn't around for much of my youth, though."

"Neither was mine," she told him. "He was always away. But…being the youngest, and the weakest, forgive me for saying," she said, and he raised an eyebrow; "you probably had to work a lot harder to keep up and to prove yourself to be just as strong and smart as your older brothers."

He nodded. She could see in his eyes that he was very interested in all that she was saying, as though he had never met anyone who even had a hint of understanding of what it was like for him growing up.

"Me, too," she said with a little half-smile. "I was raised much in the same way they were – dogs and hunting, wrestling and sword-fighting and archery and the like – but I was a girl, and much smaller and weaker than they were. And I had a bad hip. But I pulled my weight, more than my weight, and I became as good as they were at a lot of things. What I lacked in physical size and strength, I made up for in speed and dexterity and cunning."

Ivar set his knife down on the table he had gotten the food from and leaned down to look at her closer, studying her almost as he had the day she had found him in the woods. In two weeks he had watched her walk, watched her sit, watched her easily disarm him and defend herself against him, watched her fight his older brother, watched her drink, eat, vomit, sleep. In two weeks, he had seen every human aspect of this girl, but she was still a mystery to him, and therefore, she was a threat. He knew since the moment that he met her that she could have killed him, so why didn't she? He wanted to be angry, to hate her, but now he understood why he did not. She was strong when anyone else in the same situation would have been weak, she was smarter than she should have been – she not only survived, she thrived when she should not have, when any other person in her position would have simply died or been submissive.

She was like him in many ways, but he saw that she was a different incarnation of what he was. She had the same strength, the same intelligence, the same will to survive, and she harnessed it so gracefully. She thought things through where he acted so quickly. Thinking back to the day she walked up on him at his fire, he realized she had to have been watching him long before she approached, that she had strategically kept her weak side away from him the whole time, and that she had likely known the whole time that he would likely have attempted to take the life of a strange, lone woman whether she had offended him the way she had or not and known that she would likely have needed to use her weapon, and that was why she kept it concealed, so that he wouldn't expect her to fight back.

Ivar the Boneless now understood that he did not hate this woman because she was him. Or rather, she was what he could have been under different circumstances. And now that he had heard her story, though it had come to him in two parts, the first the day they met, and the second only moments before this one, he knew this to be a fact.

She hid her strength, masking it with her weakness and using it only as needed; the same, she did with her skill and her intelligence. Not only that, she was kind and harnessed no hate or bitterness the way that he did; instead, she had a certain amount of sweetness about her. Should she want to – and she certainly did want to when they first met – she could hide behind the guise of a kind, simple, beautiful girl with a bad leg. He, on the other hand, was always trying to intimidate people with these same characteristics.

His eyes met hers, and just for a moment – _no_. He stopped the thought before it really had the time to form, and to his relief, she blinked and in an instant they looked as they had before.

"So, Viking," she chuckled. "Say something."

He looked away for a moment and sat up again. "Like what?"

"I don't know," she said. "But am I right in assuming we understand one another?"

"Huh?" He felt rather stupid right now, and his cheeks burned; he only hoped they weren't red. "Oh, um, I think you are right."

"Good," she smiled. "Then it will be easy for me to train with you."

"Oh, you won't be training with me," he said.

"I won't?"

"Of course not," he said. "My fighting style is worlds different from what you will be doing. You will learn from Ubbe and Hvitserk."

"Oh," she said, deflated.

She stood slowly, having to steady herself with one hand on the wall behind her, and she carried the plate over to the table, set it down, and pulled a chair over to sit closer to Ivar. The whole time, he watched her, considering whether or not he should help her, then remembering that even if he decided he would help her, he probably wouldn't be much help. She smiled smugly, now eye to eye with him.

"Perhaps every once in a while, if you like, we might be able to train together, but you need to perfect your footing and your swordsmanship," he said. "I could teach you to use an ax. If you like."

"How hard could it be?" she asked teasingly. "You just swing it around or throw it."

"There's more to it than that!" he defended.

"If you say so, Viking," she said, smirking.

He narrowed his eyes at her.

"I would like to learn if you would teach me," she said more seriously this time, receiving a softer expression from him in return. "And perhaps there are a few things I could teach you."

" _Alright, Ivar, you can go to bed now. I'm sorry I'm late; I was –"_

Hvitserk was just walking in when he looked up to see Ita out of bed, sitting in a chair, eating and talking to his younger brother. He stopped where he was and looked at her, eyes wide and jaw slack, astonished.

"You are awake," he said, "and eating. Good." He eyed Ivar suspiciously. "Eh, he didn't wake you up, did he? He's asked a few times already if he could."

"No, he didn't," Ita said. "I just found myself awake. By the way, thank you for bringing me back inside. I would have died out there had you not found me."

"You don't have to thank me," Hvitserk said, shaking his head. "You were in need and I helped you. That's just common decency. It was the least I could do."

"New concept to you, eh, brother?" Ivar smirked.

"Oh, fuck off, Boneless," Hvitserk said to his brother. To Ita, he said, "Since you are awake now, do you want someone to stay with you, or would you like to be left alone for a while?"

"Em…." She hesitated, looking at Ivar, who looked quite tired. Who knew how long he had been awake? Then she looked to Hvitserk, who looked as though he had just woken up, but was equally as sleepy. "Well, I was having a nice talk with Ivar, but he is probably very tired and should go to bed."

"I am fine," Ivar said, his lie evident by the stifled yawn that came a moment later.

"You should go to bed," she said. "Hvitserk, you look very tired as well. How long did you get to sleep just now before you had to wake up?"

"About three hours," he said. "But I don't see why that's impor–"

"Go back to bed," she said. "I will be fine on my own. I may even go back to sleep in a little while. I am still weak and a little tired, but I am not so sick that I need someone watching me when he should be sleeping."

"Thank you," Hvitserk said. "Goodnight, Ita."

"Goodnight," she replied, and then, once he had gone, she turned to face Ivar once more. "Now you go to bed, too, _Boneless._ " She giggled. "I like that little nickname. I don't think I've heard them call you that before."

"Hm," he intoned, giving her a bemused but tired half-smile. "I will go to bed. And I will think of a name to call you."

"Ita," she said, and stood to move back to her own bed. "I am Ita; nothing more."

"Oh, no," he said. "You will have an epithet."

"My people don't use them."

"My people are your people now," he reminded her. "So you will need some sort of second name. What was your father's name?"

"His name was Áedán," she said. "But why –"

"Ita Áedánsdottir," he said. "That is your name until we find you a new one."

"I don't want a new one," she said.

But he did not hear her. He did not want to hear her. He simply told her goodnight and went away to his own room.


	3. 3

If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita

Chapter 3

Late into the night, Ita lay awake, even weeks later, barely sleeping at all until several hours after the others had gone to bed. Time wore on, and she still had yet to train with the Sons of Ragnar.

Ubbe had told her, "One more week, Ita, just to make sure you're better." And she had accepted that. One week sounded reasonable enough to her. So she stayed home with Margrethe while the men went out to work or to train.

But, reasonable or not, one week was enough time for Ita to become rather restless. Every morning, she would awaken to the sound of Ivar hobbling down the corridor outside the bedchamber she had been given once it had been decided that her place was with them, and she would run to the door and peer out without him noticing to see him leant tiredly on his crutch, pulling himself along. Hvitserk would often come after Ivar, then Ubbe, and they would go out into the main hall to gather their swords, axes, and bows and quivers. They would, some mornings, be laughing and talking. Mostly though, they were in complete silence or they bickered, but Ita paid no mind to that. She only heard the laughter, the mirth, and it made her jealous that she was not going out with them.

She had run after them a few times, sword in hand, her feet bare and her hair flying out behind her, still in her nightdress, and she would grab hold of Ubbe's arm and beg him to let her go with them.

"Just a few more days, Ita," he would say, and she would trudge back into the house, her head low and her spirits depleted.

Margrethe would meet her at the door and give her a reassuring smile and a blanket around her shoulders and tell her, "Go back to bed and in a little while you can come out and help me with the chores, hm?"

This happened three or four mornings at least but it felt no less hurtful each time. That week felt like an eternity, but it finally ended and on the eighth morning, as the men were having their breakfast, Ita came out to meet them wearing a tunic and a pair of trousers she had borrowed from Hvitserk, which were a few sizes too big for her, her sword tucked in her belt. Ivar, she noticed, had his legs tied rather than in their braces, and he was wearing what Margrethe called his "around-the-house clothes." The other two men, too, she saw were dressed rather casually.

"Are we not going out?" she had asked, her smile beginning to fade.

"It rained last night and the ground has iced over. It is too slick," Ubbe had said.

She said nothing, but her disappointment was plain to see.

"Sit. Eat," he said then. "You must be hungry."

So she joined them at the table, and she ate in silence, her shoulders hunched and her elbows resting heavily on the table as she picked at her food. Ivar watched her but also said nothing as the five of them ate spread out around the long table.

Later that day, as she sat in bed yanking out the scalp-tight plaits Hvitserk had helped her with, though, Ivar came to see her. He pulled himself up into her bed and sat carefully on the edge, just watching her. She looked so angry, so defeated; it wasn't a look he had yet seen on her face. He didn't think he liked it much, either; the way her eyebrows furrowed and her face scrunched up ever so slightly was troublesome. It made her typically pleasant face look rather unpleasant. He wondered if he looked as terrible when he was in one of those moods.

Feeling the mattress sink a little when he joined her, she looked at him from the corner of her eyes and tried to fix her expression before she acknowledged him. Though she looked less angry, that didn't fix how she felt in her heart and in her mind.

"What do you want?" she muttered spitefully.

"You wanted to go train," he said.

"I asked what _you_ wanted, Boneless."

"I know. I want to talk to you about why you are angry," he said, trying not to become frustrated, too.

She pulled her boots off roughly and threw them onto the hard wood floor below; Ivar flinched at the noise.

"What does it matter?" she asked.

"It matters," he said.

"Why?"

"I understand. You have waited. You are finally well enough to go and you cannot do what you have waited so long to do," he said.

A metal clasp on one of her fingerless gloves caught in her hair and she uttered a pained whimper, stopping mid-yank. Ivar reached out to help her. As he was able to see the problem better, he easily detangled her hair from her glove and she offered him a small smile that reflected both her gratitude to him for helping her and her sorrow for having been so harsh.

"There," he said softly, returning her smile.

"Thank you," she said, and she realized her hand was still in his.

He studied it carefully, seeing the small white scars and the calluses that peppered the pale skin of her fingers. Under the gloves, he assumed, must have been the same or much worse. She pulled her hand back protectively and continued de-plaiting her hair.

"It is nothing," he finally said. "Anyway, as soon as the ground thaws, you will be able to train. Don't worry."

"That could be weeks," she said as she tugged the thick leather gloves off her hands and tossed them onto the floor with a thud.

"Still, you will train," he said. "I will make sure of it."

"Thank you," she said again, more out of habitual politeness this time than sincere gratefulness.

He shifted his weight a little and leaned back to look around the room in an attempt to build a façade of casualness. She knew that it was a ruse and she eyed him curiously as he sighed and looked her up and down.

"You have something to say, so say it, Viking," she said with a small smile which she would have rather kept hidden. "Don't leave me wondering."

"Oh, I was just thinking that even if the ground is too slick to fight, it wouldn't be too slick to go for a walk," he said.

She looked at his legs, and then up at his face, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

"Oh, a cripple can't enjoy a day outdoors?" he laughed.

"You are up to something," she said.

"Why do I have to be up to something to want to go outside?" he said in mock defense.

"It's cold and wet," she said with a laugh. "I don't think it would do either of us any good to go out in that."

"What? One of us may fall and the other may get a good chuckle out of it," he said, making her laugh.

"I don't know," she said hesitantly.

"So what, you want to stay here then?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Seems better to be in a warm, dry house than out in the cold, wet, frozen outdoors, so yes."

Ita spent the rest of the afternoon in Ivar's company. They talked for hours, exchanging stories, their own ancient histories, some religious and some otherwise, and many personal anecdotes. He taught her to play chess, and though she wasn't very good at it yet, he let her win a few games. The first false loss hurt his pride a bit, but after the second or third, it only felt right. It made him happy to see her smile and to know he had made her feel like she had accomplished something. To keep things balanced, he did win a few times as well so as not to boost her confidence too terribly much, and secretly not to utterly destroy his own.

It had been a wonderful day. That is, until nightfall, when she had gone to bed and the all-familiar restlessness and the fear and doubt began to creep back into her thoughts. Ita began to see that even when she had a wonderful day, the night still held fear and a loneliness that was nothing but cold and damp and vacant.

As Ita lay awake in her bed every night since recovering from her illness, staring up at the ceiling, watching the firelight flicker and the shadows dance above her head, she was anything but happy and content anymore. She was tired and wanted nothing more than to sleep and hope for a day that would allow her to forget her night, but the thought of wasted time crept in, followed by the fear that she wouldn't be able to be what they needed her to be.

The fighting techniques she had grown up using were much different than what Ubbe did when she fought him. Time continued to wear on and two months now had passed without being allowed to train or even practice her skills. Ita didn't know if she could adapt what she knew into what these people obviously practiced. And not only that, she only knew how to use a sword in self-defense, and the extent of her fighting experience was all pretend. Ivar wanted to put her on a battlefield, something she knew nothing of.

These thoughts consumed her each night, and on top of them, she began to worry that if she absolutely could not make it as a shield maiden, she wouldn't ever be able to make it as a Norsewoman, either. Margrethe had taken the time to attempt to teach Ita some womanly duties like cooking and sewing; cooking was a feat, and after two kitchen fires and many burnt or undercooked dishes, Ita finally got the hang of it, but sewing was much more difficult. She couldn't mend a simple trouser leg along the seam or even thread a needle without pricking herself and bleeding all over the fabric.

That had given Margrethe the opportunity at least to teach Ita to do the laundry, yet another task she had never done. It was shocking for Margrethe, who had spent so many years a slave, forced to do these duties and more day in and day out, to learn that this girl had never done housework a day in her life beyond sweeping the front steps or carrying buckets of water from the well to the house. Internally, the young Norsewoman prayed Ita's skills as a warrior would prove better than these. So did Ita, for deep in her mind, she knew that if she could not find her place among these people, she would be lost in more ways than one.


	4. 4

If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita

Chapter 4

As though nothing at all had happened, and as if the ground had not been frozen over for weeks, Ita awoke one midwinter morning to the sound of Ivar's crutch knocking against the floor and his feet dragging slowly along with it. It sparked a hope in her that maybe the winter had decided to take a break from its bleak iciness and that they were going out. Maybe, she hoped, _maybe_ she could go with them. She rose from her bed and peered outside to see him dressed in his usual dark, sturdy clothing with his braces on and his ax and sword in his belt. This time, however, she did not wait to see Hvitserk and Ubbe pass her door and for the three of them to make it out the door before she followed – she took this chance and ran right out behind Ivar and followed him to the dining table.

"Where are you going?" she asked eagerly.

"Scouting," he said simply. "Would you care to join me?"

" _Scouting_? What does that m—"

"It is dangerous, brother. She cannot come."

Ubbe appeared in threshold between the corridor and the room where they stood, and he looked at her briefly as he fastened his belt around his waist, then he looked at Ivar.

"You know that, Ivar."

"I don't see the harm in bringing her," Ivar said, suddenly on edge.

"She has not been properly trained," Ubbe said. "What if we are found out or attacked? Then what? Should we risk our lives to save hers?"

"She knows how to defend herself. You yourself have fought her; you know she isn't so helpless."

"We cannot risk it," Ubbe said insistently. "I am sorry. She can't go."

"Where are you going?" she asked again, but Ubbe didn't answer.

Instead, he walked past her to stand directly in front of his youngest brother and he said, "Margrethe may need help with the washing anyhow."

"She may be able to help _us_ , though," Ivar argued. "She may know where to tell us to look."

"Or she may lead us in the wrong direction on purpose," Ubbe said low enough for only Ivar to hear. "You may trust her, and so do I for the most part, but I do not, where this is concerned. Not yet. We still do not know where her loyalties may lie."

"I am certain her loyalties lie with _us_ ," Ivar said, keeping his voice as low as his brother's. "Ubbe, she has been with us two months and she hasn't killed us or led some big Irish army to our doorstep. She helps your wife around the house, she spends her free time with us as a friend, and she has vowed to aid us in battle if we will only train her. I think we can trust her."

"She spends her free time with _you_ and _sometimes_ with Hvitserk or Margrethe and I. And as I have already said, _she has not yet been trained_ ," Ubbe said. "So that is the end of it. We are not taking her."

"She may know where the nearest village is!" Ivar said, nearly shouting now.

"She isn't going!" Ubbe said back, just as loudly.

Ita looked at them, perplexed and a bit hurt. "It's about ten miles to the south if you were wondering. I don't have to go if you don't want me to, but I can tell you where to look."

"Have you been?" Ubbe asked, turning respectfully now toward Ita.

"No," she said, and she crossed her arms in front of her chest. "My uncle used to trade there."

"Well aren't you a wealth of information," Ubbe smiled. "Thank you, Ita."

"You are _most welcome_ ," she said, sounding almost sarcastic.

She went back to her room.

"She can be a bitch sometimes," Ubbe muttered as he sat down at the table and put his head in his hands. "I see why you like her. She's just as stubborn as you are."

"Well, it's easy to get her like that when you insult her," Ivar said. "She feels very useless here, you know."

"Does she now?" It sounded more like a statement than a question.

"She tells me that she wants to fight," Ivar said, sitting beside his brother at the table. "She would feel the most useful alongside us with a sword at her hip. I agree that that is her place. She is being wasted here day in and day out, attempting to conform to the life of a housewife or, dare I say, a _slave_." He uttered the word with such distaste it seemed to leave a bitterness in his mouth. "But she is grateful to be of service anywhere she can, even if it is only in relaying information."

"She is anything but a slave," Ubbe scoffed.

"She may as well be," Ivar said angrily. "She is nothing but a glorified slave, given what she is allowed to do here."

"She can come and go as she pleases; she _chooses_ to stay about the house."

"She wants to fight. Since she cannot do that, she is _forced_ to stay about the house waiting for the day _you_ tell her she can join us!"

Ubbe stood, pushing his hands so hard against the table as he did that it moved noticeably despite its heaviness, and went over to tend the fire. Ivar let out a loud, exasperated breath and rolled his eyes.

"Why are we shouting? Has something happened?" Hvitserk asked; he sat down beside Ivar at the table.

"We are going scouting," Ubbe said.

"I know," he said slowly, making it known that that fact was obvious, but that it was not a good answer to his question. "And that is cause for argument?"

Ubbe did not answer, and neither did Ivar, but Hvitserk was barely interested anyway. He was used to his brothers quarrelling like that.

* * *

At the edge of the settlement, Torvi sat inside her quiet little cottage-like hut, sharpening a long knife by the fire. The day was cold and gray and wet and altogether unpleasant, and she hadn't gotten much of anything done since waking up that morning; had it been otherwise, she likely would have been outdoors keeping herself busy rather than being cooped up inside in her warmest wool gown, a heavy fur cloak around her shoulders, drinking warmed mead and tending to her various tools and weapons in the warmth and light of the small fire in the corner. But she wasn't disappointed. She knew she'd needed to clean and sharpen her blades anyway after having neglected them for far too long, and this was probably the only chance she'd have to get this job done for the next few weeks.

It was days like this, though, that she wished Bjorn would come home. She knew he would sit with her, at the very least, and talk to her to keep her company and to prevent the boredom from setting in too deeply.

She sighed heavily and set the knife down on the table beside her, picked up another, and began sharpening it as well. Quietly, to pass the time, she hummed a soft tune to herself and tapped her foot at a rate much quicker than the tempo of her song, almost impatiently, something Lagertha would have reprimanded her about, calling it a nervous tick, a sign of weakness. To Torvi, it was just something she did when her mind happened to be busier than her body was allowed to be.

It was then that the door swung open and she heard the wind howl. Believing it to be only the wind blowing the door open yet again, she started up to go shut it without even looking up, but the next thing she knew, she heard it close again. Then she heard the sound of metal hitting the wooden floor, and boots being kicked off against the wall. Standing there at the front door, as if brought in by the gods as an answer to her prayers, was Bjorn Ironside. He tossed his coat onto the floor and lumbered over to stand in front of her.

"You are here," she said, surprised.

"I am," he smiled, and he kissed her on the cheek. "How have you been?"

"Busy, or trying to be," she said, "but I am glad to see you. Why are you back so soon? Weren't you off on some big adventure?"

She smiled up at him when she said that, and he thought for a moment she was teasing him, making his dangerous voyage seem like child's play, but he knew her better than that. He smiled back and touched her arm lightly.

"It was unexpectedly cut short," he answered with no real explanation, as though it were as simple as that.

"Ah," she nodded. "Well it is nice to see you. How long have you been back?"

"I have only just returned today," he said, looking around her small one-room house without moving from where he stood.

"Oh, forgive me," she said as though it had only just then crossed her mind to offer him a place to sit. "You must be tired from your long journey."

She gave him her spot by the fire and removed her weapons from the table, and she brought him a blanket from her bed in the corner to wrap around his shoulders.

"Thank you," he said.

"It is nothing," she said. "You cared for me and for our children for so long. It is the least I can do to make you comfortable when you need it."

He smiled. "How are the children?"

"Well, not children anymore, as you know," she said.

He saw a look in her eye he couldn't quite place. Nostalgia? Yes, that was probably it. He smiled up at her as he pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

"I take it they are well, then?"

"Oh yes, they are doing just fine. I hear from them often," she said. "Do you want something to eat? You are probably hungry."

"Yes, that would be nice. Thank you." He watched her as she began to gather things from a compact cabinet which only came up to her hips and was only a little wider than it was tall. "You live such a simple life," he noted aloud.

"Yes," she said. "It suits me. I have everything I need."

"You used to keep the company of Earls and princes and queens" he said. "You were a great shield maiden, a celebrated warrior. Now…now you have one small, cold room with so little."

"It is fine." She began chopping vegetables at the table where her weapons had been. "I like it. And I still keep the company of princes," she smiled at him. "I see your younger brothers from time to time. I work with them."

"It seems wrong, Torvi," he said quietly, looking at her as he hadn't in many years. "I know it has been over between us for many years, and we are both beyond marrying age, but you could come back to Kattegat with me when I go home."

"I couldn't," she said, shaking her head.

"You could," he insisted.

"My place is here now, and I am comfortable."

She looked on the verge of tears. Her hand gripped her knife tightly, making her knuckles white. In all their years together, Bjorn almost never saw her cry, and even after he left she refused to cry in his presence. This was not going to be the first day he saw her cry. In truth, she was comfortable where she was. She enjoyed traveling with his brothers and their people and teaching the young warriors. She liked this new land, too; it wasn't as cold as Kattegat, and it had so many beautiful sights. It was perfect for a woman who was past her prime but didn't want to feel it. Torvi wiped her eyes before the tears even fell and cleared her throat.

Quietly, Bjorn stood and came to stand beside her.

"You live in a hovel, Torvi," he said, touching her cheek. "We are not young anymore. We will get old and we will die. I'm sure neither of us would like to die alone, after all the glory has faded and our children have moved on – and I can see both are already happening for us. So please, I am asking you as someone who cares deeply about you. Come home with me, hm?"

"I don't know, Bjorn," she said. "I think I would like to go on one more raid."

"A raid?" he asked. "When will that be? I have traveled all the way from the coast to where we are now and I have seen no people."

"Um…soon, I should hope," she said. "Ubbe told me when I saw him last that they would be going scouting today. Hopefully they have found a city."

"Alright," he said. "One more raid. For both of us. And then you are coming home to Kattegat with me and we will live out the rest of our days there in peace."

"Thank you, Bjorn," she said, her voice barely a whisper as he wrapped her in a one-armed hug and kissed the top of her head.

* * *

"All I am saying is that we should do it as soon as possible," Ivar said gruffly, trying to keep quiet and failing.

He dug the blade of his knife into the dirt in front of him, his eyes glued scornfully on the peaceful little city at the bottom of the glen. He and his brothers were lying hidden in the dead, brown knee-high grass on the decline of a little hill above the city, watching and waiting. They had traveled all morning and into the afternoon to get there and since finding the village had been watching the comings and goings for the last hour or two.

"Patience, brother," Ubbe said. "We have to make sure we know what we're getting into before we do anything. We need a plan."

"We have a plan," Ivar said. "We get in, we raid the church, we kill the leader, and we claim it as our own."

"We need to figure out the best way to do that," Ubbe said.

"You are overcomplicating things," Ivar argued, turning toward his brother, a cocky look on his face. "We are taking a single, small village, not fighting a war."

"Ubbe has a point," Hvitserk said. "Ivar, we must learn more about these people, about their daily life, their strengths, their weaknesses. We cannot just wander in and claim it. We cannot treat this like we know precisely what we're doing because, in truth, we _don't_."

"We have been here for ten months. We –"

"Exactly. We have been here for ten months and we have yet to actually come into contact with anyone except for Ita, and I'm not entirely sure she'll be of much help to us. We don't know if she can be trusted in these matters; we don't know how reliable she is or where her loyalties lie," Hvitserk said. Ivar scowled at him and Hvitserk let out a heavy sigh. "We need to understand their politics and their government," Hvitserk continued. "We have to understand their society. And so far, we do not."

"They are decentralized with many kings," Ivar said. "We know that much, so conquering this country should be easy. They will crumble one piece at a time and the nation will fall, and then it will be ours."

"We need to take a little more time," Ubbe said. "Please. Give me one more month at least – I would ask for two, but I know you will argue that a whole year is too long to have put all this off, so I will take just one more month – and if we have not formulated a stable plan and executed it in that time, _then_ you can have it your way."

Ivar smiled smugly. "Thank you, brother," he said, and he turned to make his way down the hill to where their things lay.

Hvitserk stood with a grunt and brushed off the dirt and bits of dead grass which clung to his clothing and followed his brother down the hill. He watched Ivar's endeavor to stand and began to wonder why on earth a man would make such an effort to do such a thing. It wasn't like there was any practicality to it – all it did was slow him down. He knew, though, like most things his brother did, it must have been a lot to do with his pride. Hvitserk would have helped if he didn't think it wouldn't end in the younger man snapping at him that he could do it himself, or being given a look that would have made any child cry and any grown man who didn't know Ivar any better want to fight him. And so, Hviterk simply stood back and watched Ivar strap the metal braces to his legs and force himself into a standing position.

"We should get going," Ubbe said. "We've got at least a five hour journey back, if we don't stop along the way, that is. Maybe we can reach home by nightfall."

"Will we come back tomorrow?" Ivar asked.

"It has been a long day. We are all tired," Ubbe said. "Surely you wouldn't want to make this journey again tomorrow."

"If you don't want to make the journey again, why not just stay the night?" Ivar asked, looking around to make a point. "It is already going to be dark by the time we get home."

"I would like to get home to my fire and my bed and my wife, Ivar," Ubbe said. "We have no food, no supplies. Staying the night would be foolish."

"Then making the journey tomorrow may be the answer," Ivar said stubbornly.

"Ivar, our goal was to find the village. We've found the village," Ubbe retorted. "Now we need to formulate a plan. Once we have that plan, _then_ we can come back."

"A month cannot come soon enough," Ivar said impudently. "I am only thankful it gives me time enough to perfect my own plan."

Without another word, Ubbe snatched up his pack, threw it over his shoulder, and started down the hill.

* * *

When they reached the edge of the settlement at dusk, they saw outside Torvi's hut a familiar sight: the large, white horse which belonged to their eldest brother, Bjorn. Having caught sight of it first, Hvitserk hit Ubbe's shoulder roughly to get his attention, jumping like a giddy child, and pointed it out to him. His and Ivar's gazes followed Hvitserk's pointing finger to the horse tied outside the hut.

"Bjorn has come home," Hvitserk said. "Let's go and see him."

"Alright," Ubbe said in agreement, and he started forward, nodding for his younger brothers to follow him into the yard.

Though Ivar would have liked very much to go home, he relished the idea of going inside to sit down, to rest his legs and enjoy the fire, and to see another of his father's sons again.

_Perhaps_ , he thought, _Bjorn Ironside would be able to offer his own opinion or advice on when and how to conduct their next raid. Maybe he could even talk some sense into Ubbe about it all._

* * *


	5. 5

If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita

Chapter 5

Raucous laughter filled the great hall suddenly, echoing through the whole house.

Ita and Margrethe had been sat by the fire all day, completely alone since the men left. And as the day faded to night and the hours wore on, Ita had come to the conclusion that they would likely be alone until the next morning, or very possibly later into the next day. She did not expect the Sons of Ragnar to return any time soon, despite Margrethe's insistence that they would be back before dawn. Ita folded the pair of dark trousers which Margrethe had handed her and placed them in the basket which was to be sent to Ivar's room with the rest of his cleaned, patched clothing, and she looked up at the sound of the laughter to see the three men coming in together, followed by another, very large man, and a woman.

The man looked much older than the three brothers, but something about him was almost like them. He couldn't be their father, for she knew Ragnar Lothbrok to be long dead. Unless, like many of their stories, that fact was also fiction – an exaggeration, Ivar would have told her with a sly smile. This man was tall, with broad shoulders and very long, light-colored hair. His beard was the same color as his hair, and his eyes were the same bright blue as the three brothers'.

He crossed the room to stand by the fire, and after warming his hands close to the flames, he turned to face Margrethe.

"How are they treating you?" he asked.

"Just fine. Thank you, Bjorn," she said with a polite little smile, her eyes not moving from the shirt she was mending.

"Living with three men must be very tiring," he said. "All the messes they make and the arguments they must have."

"I'm used to it," she said. "But I am not the only woman here now, you see." She nodded toward Ita, who glanced up at him timidly, intimidated by his great stature.

"Ah," Bjorn said, turning now to face Ita. "You must be the girl my brothers have told me about. The young warrior. Ivar's shield maiden."

"Are you Bjorn Ironside, then?" she asked.

"I am," he smiled. "So they have mentioned me?"

"Yes," she nodded. "They said you are a great warrior and that you have traveled far, farther than I have ever dreamed of going."

"Is that what they told you? They make me sound greater than I am," he said humbly as he pulled a chair over and sat in front of her. "You know, you are not as I imagined you."

"What do you mean?"

"It's just, Ivar thinks so highly of you, so I was not expecting you to be so quiet or so polite," he said.

"To tell you the truth, you are not quite as I imagined you, either," she told him a little more comfortably.

"How is that?"

"You are bigger than I imagined you would be," she said, earning a loud laugh from him.

"You are not the first woman to say so!"

His younger brothers laughed loudly, offering vulgar comments of their own from the table at the back of the room. Margrethe sniggered but continued her sewing, leaving Ita to stare back at him, eyes wide.

"It was a joke!" he said, still quite amused with himself. "I was joking."

Ita cleared her throat and blinked a few times. "I am sorry."

"For what?" he laughed. She did not answer, so he went on: "They tell me you are to be trained to fight alongside us."

She nodded.

"You will begin training tomorrow," he said, and he stood to join his brothers and the woman at the table.

An uncontrollable smile spread across Ita's face and her chest felt as though it were going to burst. She would finally be allowed to train. She was one step closer to finding her place among these people.

Margrethe looked over at her then and saw her smiling so wide, and she smiled, too. "Ita," she said, reaching for the basket in front of Ita. "You can go talk with them. I will take that."

"You're sure?"

"I am capable of folding laundry," she said, rolling her eyes. "You go. Enjoy this moment."

"Thank you," Ita said.

She slid the basket over to Margrethe and rushed over to sit at the table with the men and Torvi, who were helping themselves to the dinner which Margrethe had set aside for them upon their return. Ivar motioned for her to sit beside him.

"Congratulations," he said.

"Thank you," she replied.

"Are you happy now?" he asked as he poured himself a cup of mead.

"Yes, I am," she said.

"Good. I am glad." He took a sip from the cup and looked at her. "I am excited to see what you can do."

Hvitserk leaned across the table to take something from one of the dishes closer to the middle, and when he did he smiled at her proudly before saying, "Should we tell her what we are planning?"

"What do you think, Ubbe?" Ivar asked with a smirk as he looked over to his second-eldest brother.

"I think since you wish to involve her, she should know; but since I do not agree with the plan, I will not be the one to tell her," Ubbe replied. He swung one leg over the bench, then the other, stood, took his plate, and left to sit by Margrethe at the fire.

"Why is he upset?" Ita asked quietly.

"He views the plan as risky," Ivar said.

"And it is, but all good plans are a bit risky," Bjorn added.

"And I am involved in this risky plan?"

"Yes," Ivar nodded, taking another sip from his cup.

"You don't seem worried," she said, and she let out a nervous laugh.

"I am not," he smiled; he passed her the cup. "Do you want to hear the plan or not?"

She looked at the swirling, translucent yellow contents of the cup, then back to him. "Of course I do."

"Finish your drink and I will tell you," Ivar said.

She didn't want to, but she drank anyway, taking a huge mouthful of the too-sweet liquid and swallowing it. "Alright."

"We are going to send you into the village as a spy," he told her. "You will go in a few times leading up to the raid, earn their trust, learn the layout of the village, find out who lives where and what they do, and you will report it all to us. And when the day of the raid arrives, we will wait for you to make the first move."

"Why me?" she asked anxiously, wringing her hands around the cup.

Ivar smiled and filled the cup again, nodding for her to take another sip. Reluctantly, she did. She took one hesitant, small sip and then drained the cup in a few gulps.

"Because you are like them," he said. "And because you said yourself that your uncle used to trade there, so obviously your family will be known to them. They will accept you more easily than they will accept one of us."

He flashed a charming, mischievous grin at her and her stomach turned. She didn't know if that was from the alcohol or from the sickening reaction that smile almost got from her heart.

"And why should I agree to do this?" she asked.

"I think we both know that this is what you want," he said, lowering his voice.

"Are you implying that I want to assist in the murder of innocent people? Of my _own_ people?" she asked.

"I am implying," he said as he leaned in closer, "that you want to fight. You want to feel the rush of battle, and you want greatness just as much as I do, though you will not admit it."

In his eyes, she saw treachery and peril, but she also saw just what he had mentioned: a hunger for greatness, and for something she could only describe then as _more._ Her hands were shaking and it was not until her left hand became soaked with warm, sticky drink that she realized this and simultaneously became aware that he had refilled her cup again. She set it on the table in front of her and wiped her hand on her skirt. Nervous, she looked across the table at Hvitserk, who had a similar mischievous, almost crazed grin on his face, and at Bjorn, who looked so level-headed about it all that she was almost comforted. Then her eyes fell on the woman, the blonde angel from her fever. She was looking back at her, her anticipation for Ita's answer visible in her eyes.

Ita lifted the cup to her lips once more and took a quick swig. "I will do it," she said.


	6. 6

If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita

Chapter 6

Rain was falling again. The air was still cool, but Ita could feel it warming up just enough for her to know: spring was not far off. She took off the padded armor that covered the tunic and trousers she wore, and she kicked her boots off at the door. They would be hell to get dry again if she got them wet, and God forbid if she happened to get a little mud on them. Margrethe would never forgive her. Her gloves, too, she threw on the floor just inside the house and she ran out into the rain. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the sky to welcome the cool, refreshing water. The feeling of the mud under her feet instead of damp, packed earth was magnificent, too. Her muscles ached and her feet were so sore all she had wanted to do on the walk home was sit, but right now, she didn't care. After a long day of working and practicing her swordsmanship from dawn until the midafternoon, she relished this little moment.

Days had passed by since she had started her training, weeks probably, maybe even a month or two. She wasn't entirely sure after the first two weeks. Ivar's plan to send her into the village as a spy and attack within the month was set back quite a bit by the wedding of one of his men, which he reluctantly allowed. Then there was Yol. None of the men wanted to raid during Yol, not even Ivar, so it was put off even further.

"Ahem," she heard from the door, and she turned around to see Ivar standing in the doorway, leaning on the frame heavily, a smirk on his face.

Her hair was soaked and water was dripping down her face from where she had been looking straight into the rain. He laughed as she pushed her hair back and spit a bit of water out of her mouth.

"Hello," he said.

"Why are you wearing those still?" she asked, nodding to his braces. "Training ended an hour ago."

"Why are you outside still?" he responded in a similar tone. "It is raining."

"I like the rain," she said.

"Well I like to walk."

"Ah," she nodded.

"As soon as it stops raining, we are leaving," he said. "If the Seer is right, it should be done by this evening. Are you going to be ready?"

"I have what I need packed already," she told him. "I just need to change into some dry clothes." She shook her head to sling another strand of hair out of her face, only covering her face more with her soaked curls. She used her hand this time to push them away. "And you know that poor man hates you exhausting him with such trivial things as the weather."

He laughed, but ignored that last remark.

"Margrethe isn't going to be happy when you come inside and get her floors all wet," Ivar said, looking her up and down. Her hair and clothes were already dripping wet.

"Oh." She hadn't thought of that.

"It doesn't matter; I have an idea," he said.

"And what is that?"

"Are you any good at climbing in windows?"

"What?"

"Windows. Can you climb in them or not?"

"Yes, but –"

"Meet me at my window," he said. He started back in the house, then stopped. "But first, where do you keep your clothes?"

"In the chest beside my bed, but –"

"My window," he said again, interrupting her, and he disappeared into the house.

Ita rolled her eyes and pushed her hair back out of her face one more time before trudging barefoot through the mud toward his window at the back of the house. When she got there, she stood against the wall under the small awning. She was already wet, but this little shelter did offer her a chance at avoiding getting even wetter before she climbed inside.

Inside the house, Ivar made his way through the hall, down the side corridor, and into Ita's room. There, he found the chest she had told him about and he rifled through it, ignoring the fact that she not only used it for her clothing, but for storage of various other items from her sword to some beaten up old book and a chain which held a small cross. He grabbed one of her dresses, a blue one, and headed back out into the corridor and to his own bedroom at the end. From a small closet beside the door, he retrieved a towel and threw it with the dress onto his bed.

"Alright," he said, pushing open the shutters on his window. "Ita."

She looked in at him, still confused. "Yes?"

"You can climb in a window, can't you? It's not that high."

In fact, it wasn't. The entirety of the house was on the ground level, and she was almost eye to eye with him where she stood – eye to shoulders, rather, but that was normal.

"Oh, I can, but can you tell me why before I do?" she asked skeptically.

"So you can dry off and change clothes without getting water all over the whole house and upsetting the woman," he said, slightly annoyed that she hadn't caught on. He thought this was all very clear. "She doesn't come in my room unless she has to, so she won't notice a little water on the floor in here."

"Oh," she said, "thank you."

And she threw her right leg over the sill into the room and pulled herself in. She crossed the room to where he had dropped her dress on his bed, but stopped and looked at him when she realized he was still standing there unmoving.

"Em…" she hesitated, eyeing him nervously.

"Yes?"

"Don't look?" she said, the words coming out almost as a question, a request which she partly didn't expect him to honor.

He sighed heavily and looked up at the ceiling as though she were inconveniencing his mere existence, but he turned around to look out the window anyway. "Fine."

"Thank you," she said again quietly and stripped quickly out of her wet clothes.

After she had dried off and dressed, she laid the towel on the floor where she had stood to soak up the water.

"Do you think you are ready for tomorrow?" he asked, turning back around to face her.

The next day, Ita would be entering the village for the first time, and in all honesty, she wasn't sure what to expect. She sat down on his bed and crossed her legs in front of her, pulling her skirt down over them, and she shrugged.

"I do not know," she admitted.

"If you aren't ready, we can wait a little while longer," he said.

"No, I-I think I am," she said quickly, watching him sit down across from her. "I don't want to make you wait any longer than you already have. I'm just a little worried is all."

"It should be easy," Ivar told her. "You won't stand out too much among them. Don't worry. You can treat it like an afternoon walk. Just go in, learn the locations of a few things – the church, for example – and if anyone talks to you, you can talk back. Tell them you are visiting someone, a relative, a family friend. I don't care what you tell them." He laughed then. "Tell them the truth, even. They won't believe you."

She laughed, too, until she saw the darkness in his eyes. It brought out an uneasiness in her that started in her chest and gradually spread to the rest of her, making her smile fade. She swallowed hard and nodded.

"I will just say I am looking for my uncle," she said. "They know him, so they won't question it. I can tell them my mother and brothers have died and I am looking for him to give him the news."

"Good," Ivar said with a content smile. "You've been thinking about this. I can tell."

In truth, she had been thinking about it. A lot. Since agreeing to this, Ita couldn't get her mind off that little village and its people, and she had not seen either yet. In her mind, though, she imagined it as her home. She imagined going in and seeing people she knew, and a life very similar to the one she had been forced to leave behind just a few months earlier.

She thought of her mother and how she would sing songs as she cooked and cleaned the house, and of her father the sailor, who she almost did not remember he had been gone so long. He had left years before they had all gotten sick. Her mother decided he died at sea, but as a young girl, Ita liked to think that he had fashioned a life for himself elsewhere.

She thought of her brothers: Fergus, the eldest and the town's blacksmith, who taught Ita to use a sword when she was just a small child, and whose own small children Ita would play with and tell stories to. He was so brave. He never feared death, even as it stood by his bedside, its hand on his shoulder as he told her to leave and find the Norsemen and make her home with them.

Then there was Domnall, who had just gotten married and had so much life to live. He and his beautiful young wife Aideen were among the first to die. In Domnall, Ita saw her father, especially in his quick-witted nature and his contentment with simply _living_. In fact, he had been the one to take over after their father's disappearance. She would never have the chance to repay him for that.

And Rónán, _Oh, God, Rónán,_ just a year older than herself at twenty-three, so strong and so certain about everything, but who couldn't bear the thought of seeing his mother and siblings die and ran away to spare himself that misery. He was likely long dead, or in some distant land never to be seen by her again.

She thought of her uncle, too, of course. Would Diarmait be there? There was a chance of it, though that chance was slim. He had left before the worst of it had set in, but he was already showing symptoms: the nausea, the overwhelming headaches and dizziness. She longed to see someone she knew, but she prayed she wouldn't find him there, for surely he would be killed once Ivar's army took the city.

She couldn't stop thinking of that part, either. Could she do that to these people? Would she be able to close off whatever part of her mind recognized these innocent people as her own? Would she be able to put any thought of humanity out and follow through with what she had agreed to?

She wasn't sure, but for her own life, she had to try.

"Yes, I've been thinking about it," she said after a momentary lapse.

"It is always good to think ahead," Ivar said.

"Yes," she nodded, but said no more.

* * *

She tried to sleep there in his room as he made a few last minute preparations before they were to leave. They would be walking all night until they were close enough to the village to make camp, which would take several hours, and she wanted to be well rested. The sounds of Ivar walking about, moving things, and opening and closing doors helped clear her mind and she slept peacefully for a while. That is, until across the hall she heard a familiar argument start up.

" _You agreed!_ " Ubbe boomed.

"What did I agree, Ubbe?" Ivar said back.

"You agreed after the war that you and I would be equals," Ubbe said. "You agreed that together we would lead the Great Heathen Army, and that I would have just as much say as you in these decisions. Now, everything we have done in the last ten fucking years has been to _your_ benefit!"

"Has it now?"

"We came to Ireland because _you_ wanted to. We found nothing for miles but decided to stay because it was what _you_ thought it best. We invited that girl into our home, fed her, clothed her, and taught her to fight because _you_ insist she will be useful to us. I am sick of you making all the decisions here."

"Ubbe, I have allowed you to hold me back and tell me, 'Please wait, Ivar; it's for the best,' so many times," Ivar argued. "I try to sit back and let you make decisions, but you hesitate, and in the end, you come to the same conclusions which I have already given you. Do not blame me for this."

"Yes, but now, now you are not even giving me the opportunity to make my own decisions and plans. You have turned our brothers against me yet again, and you are making decisions which are crazy enough to kill half our men. Is that what you want?"

"If it is what it takes!"

There was a brief pause before Ubbe scoffed and went on, saying, "Do you _hear_ yourself?"

Ita sat up, the furs she had been using to cover herself falling to the floor as she stood. She picked them up and set them back on the bed, and she went to the door to peer outside, keeping it mostly shut. The door to Ubbe and Margrethe's bedroom was open, and inside she could see Ivar and Ubbe standing too close for any kind of shouting to be reasonable. Margrethe was sitting on the bed, watching them but saying nothing. She likely knew after so many years that it would make no difference if she spoke.

"Do you hear yourself, Ivar?" Ubbe said again. "You are mad."

"Is there something wrong with that? It seems to have worked for me so far."

"You should have learned by now that war means death and death means pain. This kind of thing will only harm our people."

Ivar sighed heavily. "Ubbe," he said, still loud but no longer shouting, "I realize that people may die, but I want to carry on our father's legacy and build my own. I want to expand our lands and I believe this is the best place to do it. Even if we lose a few men along the way, if we gain land and wealth, is that really a loss?"

"Yes! It is, Ivar!"

Ita saw Ubbe start toward the door, and just as he made it into the corridor, she came out of Ivar's room with the intention of speaking with them. She didn't know what she wanted to say, maybe that she would be willing to wait if he thought it best, but as soon as she stepped out and his eyes met hers, his expression shifted. He no longer looked angry, he looked… _shocked?_ Ubbe looked back at his youngest brother, who was walking out after him, slow but determined, and then back to Ita, who was standing there in the doorway to his brother's bedroom, sleep still in her eyes and her hair a mess from staying abed for so long.

She realized immediately how it must have looked.

"Oh, this is good. I should have guessed," Ubbe chuckled, shaking his head as he departed out into the hall toward the fireplace muttering something she didn't understand.

"I'm sorry," Ita said, looking now to Ivar, "I –"

His eyes were wide and his mouth in a nearly straight white line. She could tell he was holding back from spitting out some harsh remark.

"Don't worry about it. Go back to bed," he said quietly, but obviously frustrated.

"Ivar, I can explain to him if –"

"I said go back to bed," he cut her off. "It doesn't matter what he thinks."

She watched as he stomped past her, out into the hall and to the table in the back of the room. The rain was still falling, pattering loudly on the roof.


	7. 7

If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita

Chapter 7

Just as the Seer had foretold, the rain dissipated and the sky cleared in the early evening. Ita, with her pack on her shoulder, followed Ivar to the edge of the settlement to meet the men. He and Ubbe still were not speaking after their argument, but they must have not been so angry with each other, Ita realized, because Ubbe was still going with them. Though, he did cut a few glares in Ivar's direction, which were often followed by a bemused glance at Ita. She quickly learned not to care.

Ivar made his way through the vast crowd of men – and women, too, Ita noticed with a certain amount of amazement, but of course she was not the only shield maiden among them – toward the front. She kept close behind him, dodging glances and avoiding eye contact with many of them who she still did not know well who still viewed her as a potential threat. An outsider could not be trusted, many of them agreed, especially the older ones, who whispered of another Christian who had earned the respect of Ivar the Boneless, a bishop-warrior called Heahmund, whose legend perplexed Ita. Was he even real, or had these older warriors invented this traitorous, pagan-killing mercenary from England? She didn't dare ask.

"It's in his blood," she heard one man say, cutting her a scornful glance as they passed.

She grabbed hold of Ivar's cloak nervously.

"Aye, his father did just the same," said another, a tall, older man with a graying beard.

"Maybe he's worse than Lothbrok. You'll remember his father only had the one," a woman's voice chimed in.

"Oh, yes. I remember. Ragnar Lothbrok took a right strange liking to that _priest_ ," said the first man, seeming to spit out the final word as though it were poison.

"Floki remedied that, though," the woman chuckled darkly.

"I always thought Ivar'd be more like Floki, seeing as he practically raised him," the second man said almost regretfully.

"Yes, but we all remember what happened to Floki," said the first man, and the conversation seemed to die there.

Or maybe she simply ceased to hear it. She was used to much worse from some of them, of course, but it was surprising that they would say this much with Ivar near. He didn't seem to hear their words at all, so far as Ita could perceive. She half expected him to say something, but he just walked on in stoic silence to the front of the crowd with Ita at his side.

"Why are there so many warriors coming with us?" she asked. "I thought you said I was to go in alone."

"And you shall," Ivar said, "the first time."

She nodded.

"Hey," Ivar said, looking briefly over his shoulder at her, his expression softening just a bit. "Don't be so worried. Nothing bad will happen."

She forced a little smile and nodded again.

"No one will dare do or say anything to you that they wouldn't want me to find out about," he said.

She wasn't so sure about that, but she tried to trust him. "Alright."

"And once you're in the village, if anything goes wrong," he said, trailing off. He looked at her again with a smile as she glanced up to meet his eyes. "Well, let's just say we do have an alternate plan."

"What does that entail?"

"Ehh…raiding early," he said tactfully.

"Oh," she said. "You know, I would not be so nervous if I wasn't going in unarmed."

"We have brought your sword and your shield, and you shall be given both once the raid begins," he reminded her.

"And what if I am not given them in time?" she questioned.

He did not answer, but looked away.

When they reached the front of the crowd, Ivar was loaded up into a chariot which was drawn by a large, dark horse, and Ita joined his brothers in walking ahead of the army. Ubbe's eyes seemed to follow her from time to time, looking a little more than confused.

"Is there anything you would like to discuss, Ubbe?" she asked.

"Well, no, not that I can think of," he said with a smirk. "Nothing important comes to mind. I suppose I could ask if you are ready for tomorrow."

"I am," she said, trying not to sound as worried as she was.

"And if all goes well, we raid in a week," Hvitserk said. "Are you ready for that?"

"One more training session and I should be," she replied.

"I think you'd be ready tomorrow if it came down to it," he said.

"Let's hope it doesn't," she laughed nervously.

* * *

They reached their destination about five hours later, deciding to set up camp just a little ways outside the city, on the other side of the glen where Ubbe, Hvitserk, and Ivar first saw the city. Tents were set up and fires were built as everyone unpacked and settled into what would be their home for the next week. While many of the men opted to sleep outside, the Sons of Ragnar, most of the shield maidens, and a handful of upper-ranks warriors chose to sleep in tents, many of them sleeping four or five to a tent. Ita was lucky enough to get her tent all to herself; Torvi was meant to share with her, but since they had arrived, Torvi had stayed mainly outside tending to the fire or telling stories to some of the younger shield maidens who, like Ita, had never experienced a raid.

As she sat on her makeshift bed on the floor of the tent, Ita knew she should be sleeping so that she would not be tired for the coming morning, but her mind was much too busy for that. So she arranged and rearranged her bed, thinking that no matter what she did to it, it would never be as comfortable as her bed back in Ivar's hall. But then, she thought, once exhaustion kicked in – and she knew that it likely would by the next evening – an uncomfortable sleeping place would not matter; any sleeping place would do.

"Ita," a quiet voice from the door said, and she looked up to see Ivar peering in.

"Yes?"

"Would you care to join me for a walk?" he asked.

She wanted to say, "Viking, you may have ridden here, but the rest of us walked. I am tired. Of course I do not want to go for a walk."

Instead, Ita smiled and she cut all that down to, "Of course."

* * *

They walked into the woods where they had come from, to a nearby stream that Ivar knew of. Ita knew it well, too, as she had often gone there with her brother Fergus as a child, and there he would tell her all the ancient stories their father had taught them. It held a much different air now, no longer as carefree and light, but quite a bit darker. Perhaps it was only the night, or rather the anxiety she had been feeling of late. They stopped there, and Ita walked down to the shore to look into the water. It was the same as she remembered, clear and clean and ever moving. She smiled, remembering how she always asked Fergus where the water went. He didn't know. Neither did she, even now.

She dipped her foot in and found that it was icy cold, just as she remembered it. She quickly drew her foot back out again. As a child, it never seemed to bother her. She would run into it and splash about, having little notice or care for its frigidity. Over her shoulder, she looked back at Ivar and saw him watching her as he leaned on his crutch.

"It's beautiful here," she said.

"I like it, too," he agreed.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked him as she tucked her hair behind her ears and knelt down to look at the ground near the water.

"Hm," he intoned, tilting his head as he watched her; she seemed to be searching for something, though he couldn't tell what. All around seemed only dirt and rocks. "I don't think you really want to know the answer to that."

"I do," she said.

He remained silent for several seconds, then he sighed. "Well," he said, "I am thinking about you."

"Oh?" She smiled sweetly. He saw the light in her eyes, reflected from the pale moonlight which shone through the treetops above them, and he returned her smile. "What about me?"

"Em," he hesitated, clearing his throat, "mostly how you will do your first raid."

"Oh."

That word felt much different this time around, and Ivar could see her face fall. Quickly, she snatched something up off the bank and shoved it into the pocket of her cloak, and she stood. With slow, smooth steps, she walked back to where he stood and leaned against the tree he was standing under. Ivar had to turn to look at her, and when he did, he saw her staring out at the little stream.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked quietly.

"I was just asking my God if I am in the right place," she said.

"And he can hear you without you speaking?" He seemed skeptical, which was a bit amusing to Ita.

She laughed. "Yes. He can hear everything. Every thought, every word, spoken or unspoken."

"That seems highly unlikely," he smirked.

"But it is true," she said.

He laughed and shook his head. "You may believe that, but I will choose not to."

"Why is that?" She cocked her head to the side, studying him carefully with a smile on her face.

"I do not want him to hear some of the things that I think," he returned.

"I completely understand," she said with a nod and a smirk.

"But to answer your question, if you will allow me, I would say that you are," he said.

"I am what?"

"In the right place," he said.

"I think I am, too, but…" she trailed off.

Ivar leaned back against the tree beside her and let go of his crutch. "But what?"

"I cannot help but think of where I might be if I had not been brought here."

"Oh, and where would you be if not here?"

"Right now? In my bed asleep," she chuckled. He smiled, acknowledging her joke. "I would probably still be at home with my mother and my brothers if we had not fallen ill. Or maybe I would be married."

"Have you not been married before?" he asked her.

"No; have you?"

"Once," he nodded. "Very briefly."

She nodded, too, unsure of whether to ask for more information.

"I am surprised you haven't," he said. "You must be old enough."

"I am. I have been engaged to be married twice," she explained. "But I have never been married. My father, after returning from Northumbria, was given high honors. And on my fifteenth birthday, I was supposed to be married to the son of some lesser noble, which would have helped my family greatly."

"Why did you not marry him?" Ivar asked, intrigued.

"With my father gone, the deal between his parents and mine could not be finalized."

"Did you want to marry him?"

"No," she said simply, shaking her head.

"Things are very different with us," he said. "A woman has choices here so long as she is free."

"That sounds wonderful," Ita smiled.

He returned her smile and nodded. "So this young nobleman, was he your only prospective husband?"

"Well, just before the sickness, I had been engaged to a weaver's son." She looked at the ground vacantly. "We would have been married by now."

Ivar nodded. "Did you love him?" he asked quietly.

"I only met him twice," she said. "He seemed quiet and simple. It could have been quite a calm life with him. But no, I did not know him enough to love him."

"Do you wish he had lived and you had married him?" Ivar asked her. "Would that be better than this?"

"Of course quiet contentment would be better than the imminent slaughter of innocent people, but I feel I am living more with your people than I ever would have with the weaver boy or the young nobleman."

She gave him a little smile which appeared both sad and grateful, and he nodded.

"Ita, if you ever long for this quiet contentment you mentioned, do not hesitate to ask. I would do everything in my power to get that for you if it is what you desire," he said.

"Thank you. I will keep that in mind."

He looked at her carefully, a barely readable look in his eyes. Ita paused and looked back at him. He was up to something. She was almost certain of it. He took a step closer and briefly she contemplated taking a step back, but whatever Ivar was doing now didn't seem very threatening. He smiled sweetly and placed a hand on the back of her neck, his thumb beside her ear. His other hand he placed on her waist. The thick leather of his clove felt cold and rough against her neck, but his skin was warm and his touch gentle and comforting. Ita wound her arms around his neck as his gaze met hers and he leaned closer to lay his forehead against hers, just looking at her there in the dark for a few moments.

"I'm so scared for tomorrow," she breathed shakily after what seemed like ages of silence.

"Don't be," he said. "You will be fine, and remember if anything goes wrong, you will not be alone."

"I know."

His expression softened. His smile faded and he leaned in closer.

And he kissed her.

Ita kissed him back, hardly knowing what to do but desperately trying to follow his lead. Fortunately, he was slow and gentle, much to her surprise and relief. With his back to the tree to keep his balance, he slid his arms around her and drew her in slowly, pulling her body tighter to his as they kissed. She arched into him and sighed, the air rushing out her nostrils and past his cheek, making a noise like rustling paper. When he finally pulled away and looked into her eyes once more, she saw a very different Ivar than the one she had met so many weeks ago in these same woods. He laughed under his breath and kissed her once more, a little more chastely this time.

Nothing in him now looked capable of the things he was known for; this was not Ivar the Boneless, the fearsome commander of an army of heathens on whose hands was the blood of countless men and women who stood in his way. No, this was a very different man.

She laughed with him now as he kissed her again.

"Are you ready to go back?" he asked her. "You will probably want to rest before…."

"Yes, we should probably get back," she said, and she took a slow step away from him.

When they made it back to the encampment, she saw his demeanor change once more, back to his usual distant, vaguely angry expression and his stiffened gait. He walked her back to her tent and bade her good night, giving her one last little smile before turning and leaving to rejoin his brothers by their fire.


	8. 8

If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita

Chapter 8

_Barely five minutes had passed before her tent door opened again. Ita turned to see Ivar standing in front of her, and she was just about to say something, to ask him what he was doing, when he kissed her again. This kiss was different than the one out in the woods. It was hungrier, more desperate, and she kissed him back with just as much urgency. Slowly, he led her to her little bed in the back. They only parted long enough for him to figure out how to sit._

_He pulled her into his lap and they picked up right where they left off: her hands in his hair and his on her back, holding her to him as tightly as possible. She rocked her hips against him once, eliciting a soft groan from him which started deep in his throat before vibrating into her mouth. He was already hard, that much was obvious, and the friction was maddening. He pulled her closer and untied the top of her dress to pull it down over her shoulders to get to her breasts. She pulled her arms out of the sleeves. The night was cold, but he was warm; she pressed herself closer to him. He smiled and kissed her neck tenderly, sending shivers down her spine._

" _I want you," she said breathily, and she started tugging at the strings on the front of his trousers._

* * *

"Ita!"

She started awake to see Torvi standing over her where she lay on her pile of furs and blankets on the floor of the tent. She was sweating despite the slight chill in the early morning air and her heart was beating out of her chest, but she could attribute the second part mostly to the surprise wakeup Torvi had just given her. But the older woman simply laughed and tossed Ita the faded green-gray dress she had worn the day she first stumbled upon Ivar in the woods.

"Good morning," Torvi said with a laugh. "Sleep well?"

"Em…" she hesitated.

"You talk in your sleep. Did you know that?"

"I _what_?" Ita asked.

"I'm kidding," Torvi chuckled. "But based on that reaction and how red you are, it must have been some dream."

"I –"

"It doesn't matter. It's time for you to get ready."

Ita stood and took her dress off. She examined the one in her hands. "This dress is too warm for this time of year."

"It's all we have that will look familiar enough to these people for you to go in and walk around without drawing too much attention," Torvi said. "I'm sorry. Maybe you could find a way to get another before you have to go back."

"I don't know how that would be possible." Ita sighed and put her head and arms through the proper holes, and as she pulled the dress over herself, she found that it was a bit tighter than it had been when she had worn it before. Being with the Norsemen, between finally eating enough and working more, she had gained a little weight. "I have no money to buy one and I don't know anyone to borrow something from."

"Make a friend. Do what you have to do," Torvi said, and she came over to undo some of the plaits in Ita's hair so that it hung looser as it had before. "You're a smart girl; you'll figure something out."

"I'm not so sure about this," Ita said tentatively, looking over her shoulder at Torvi.

"You'll be just fine," she assured her. "You've earned the favor of one of the most dangerous men alive, so I'd say you're fairly safe."

"He may control what happens in your world, but within those gates –"

"You will not stand out unless you make yourself stand out," Torvi interrupted her. "You need to remember that. You may live with us and speak our language, but outwardly you are still one of them. They will not suspect you if you are careful."

"What if someone suspects me? I am still an outsider, despite being just as Irish as they are," she said, picking up her small pack and slinging it over her shoulder.

"You're Irish enough to pass," Torvi said assuredly. "Anyhow, it's time to go and see the others before we send you off."

The walk across the encampment from their tent to the one where they found the Sons of Ragnar sat around a table was a blur. Ita did not even feel as though she were the one walking, so much as her feet were carrying her with Torvi as their guide. The tent door was held open for her by some nameless guard – one of many, Ita had discovered over the last few days. She still didn't understand, if these men were supposed to be the four most dangerous men in the North, why they needed so many personal guards. But now was not the time to ask.

"Ita," Ivar said, smiling at her and gesturing for her to come and sit in the empty chair to his right, "how are you feeling?"

"A bit nervous," she said quietly once she had sat down.

"Don't be," he said. "You look the part. And you will be in and out in no time. We only need you to find a few places for us and maybe make a few friends. Nothing major."

She nodded, though she did not quite agree with how simple he was making it out to be.

"Hvitserk will see you down the hill, but only until you are in view of the city," Bjorn said. "I hope that does not bother you."

"No, that's actually quite a relief," she said, glancing over to Hvitserk, who looked more nervous than someone in his position ought to; she wondered then if there were more to this little detail than they were letting on. "I couldn't imagine being alone the whole way."

"Technically," Ubbe said as he leaned forward to look at her across the table, "you won't be. We have a spy who will be watching from a distance."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Just to make sure you're safe," he said. "Should anything go wrong, you will give the signal and someone will get you out as quickly and as discreetly as possible."

She could tell there was more to it. She was not being told everything.

"And?" she pressed.

"And we will raid," he said with a shrug, completely effortlessly.

"Alright," Ita sighed.

"Do you think you're ready?" Ivar asked her.

"As ready as I can be," she said. She looked to Hvitserk, who stood now, ready to escort her down the hill, and reluctantly, she stood, too. "Any last advice before I go?" she asked to no one in particular.

Ivar touched her hand, and she looked down at him where he still sat beside her. He nodded, beckoning her to lean in, and when she did, he whispered, " _Exaggerate the limp_."

* * *

"So why are they really sending you with me?" she asked Hvitserk once they had gotten a considerable distance away from the encampment.

"Well," he began, looking over to her, "in all honesty, so that you don't try to run."

"Who thought I would run?" she asked.

"That would be your friend and my dear little brother, Ivar," Hvitserk laughed.

"Huh," she said, half-amused. "Of course."

"Also because I am the spy they mentioned to you," he said.

"How can you be? Surely they'll notice a Viking coming in and walking around the square."

"I won't be coming in unless you need me," he said. "It is my job to hide just outside the city walls and watch from a distance. So don't go in any buildings where I can't see you unless you plan on coming right out."

He laughed and so did she.

"So will you meet me on my way out, too, then, to walk me back up the hill?"

"Only if you want me to," he said. "Ivar wasn't scared of you running after it was over. He fully expects you to come straight back to him once you've learned all you can for one day."

"That certainly is the plan."

They were still about a half mile out from the city, but Hvitserk stopped and turned to look at her. "Why did you agree to this, and why does he trust you enough to just send you in there? Please don't take this the wrong way, but if it had been me who had found you, I likely would have taken you prisoner and made you a slave or killed you then and there. I certainly wouldn't have thought to make you play such an integral role in a scheme as important as this one."

"We have…a mutual understanding, I think," she said.

"Sex?" Hvitserk guessed without skipping a beat.

"No, not sex!"

"Hey, I wouldn't admit to fucking him either; he's insane," Hvitserk laughed.

"Are you suddenly twelve years old?" Ita said, laughing with him, and she started walking again.

"Are you having sex with my crippled brother?" he shot back at her.

"Not at the moment. Currently I'm walking with you toward my possible doom."

"You sarcastic little bitch," he said, still laughing as he caught back up with her.

"I'm Irish. We practically invented sarcasm," she smirked. "But no, I'm not sleeping with your brother. Sorry to disappoint. I know how thrilling that would have been for you."

"What was I thinking? If you were, Ivar would be nicer by now. And you wouldn't be like this."

She laughed. "Oh, of course."

Only a short distance ahead of them was the city. Ita paused, looking across at it in silent awe.

"You're not going to try to run now, are you?"

"No," she said, and she shook her head. "You go ahead and find your hiding place and I'll go right in."

"As long as you're sure."

"I am," she said. "By the way, thank you for the company. You did a great job at making me laugh so I wasn't too scared."

"My pleasure," he smiled, turning to depart off to the right. "Have fun."

She didn't respond, but went silently on ahead, and she slipped unnoticed through the gates and into the crowd. All the old feelings came rushing back the deeper she went into the city. So many things reminded her of home, from the voices to the clothing and even the skin and hair of the people around her. It was almost overwhelming how familiar it all was.

With no set destination in mind, Ita made her way toward the marketplace and began looking around as she listened to the talk. Maybe she could find a new dress to replace this one with. It was much too hot and too tight, and anyhow she couldn't be seen in the same dress each time she visited the city. People would begin to suspect something then.

The only trouble was how to pay for it. If she were as sneaky as Hvitserk, she might be able to steal one without being caught; or if she were as pretty as Torvi, she might be able to talk the merchant into giving her one; or even if she were as charming as Ivar or as reasonable as Bjorn, she could strike a deal. Instead, small and lame and red-haired, looking much like a dozen other girls in this part of town, she made her way down the line of tables and displays, keeping her head low.

"Can I help you find anything?" asked a man who was sitting on a stool behind one of the cloth-laden tables.

"Oh, no; I'm just looking. Thank you," she replied with a smile, barely looking up.

The man, though, did a quick double take as soon as she said that. He got up from his stool and watched her as she took a step forward, looking at all the different colored materials he had on his table, and just as she was turning to leave, he stopped her.

"Wait."

She halted then, and hesitantly she turned around. There was a bitter taste in her mouth and it seemed as though her heart had stopped altogether. She kept her eyes low for a moment, not daring to make eye contact.

"Yes?" she said quietly, fearing she had been found out already.

"Ita…"

It was barely a breath of a whisper, but in his voice was a sense of quiet astonishment and joy.

"Ita," he said a little louder. "Ita, my dear, it cannot be."

She looked up then and there before her on the other side of the table stood her uncle, Diarmait. He was quite a small man, and even thinner than she remembered, with short black hair and eyes the color of a house wren. She met his gaze, doing nothing but stare back for several seconds. Abruptly, he ran around to her side of the table and pulled her into a tight embrace, as if he needed to hold her to know she was really there. On his skin, his hair, his clothing, his breath, she smelled home. She hugged him, too, and she squeezed her eyes shut. The tears were coming now, and she had to stop them before they did.

"You're alive," he said, laughing. "I heard that you had all perished, Aoife and your brothers, all of you."

"Yes," she said again, this time in confirmation. "I am alive."

He drew back, his hands still on her shoulders, holding her at a little bit of a distance to look her over appraisingly.

"Is it not true then? Your mother, how is she?"

"Oh, she is dead," Ita said somberly. "She and the rest of our family."

"I see," he nodded. "But you cannot imagine how happy I am to see _you_."

"I am happy to see you, too, Uncle," she said, but she did not look it.

It was a bitter relief to see him alive. Everything in her wanted to celebrate the mere sight of him here before her, but in her mind she saw him already dead, his blood spattered across his fine cloths and his eyes dark and vacant, with a knife in his chest. Or was it a sword? Maybe an arrow? A spear? An ax? She took a step back, her stomach churning.

"Where have you been? You look well." He smiled again.

"Em…" She looked over her shoulder briefly in the direction she had come. "I…."

"Why, Diarmait, she's been with me," a smooth female voice said from behind him, and he turned around, stepping out of the way to reveal a young woman approaching from another table.


	9. 9

If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita

Chapter 9

Ita did not recognize this girl, but whoever she was, she needed to be thanked later.

"She's been with you, has she?" Diarmait asked, and Ita saw his whole demeanor change. He seemed now as though he were trying to appear charming, and it took everything in Ita not to laugh. "Then how come I haven't seen her? Hm?"

"Because," the woman said, " _you haven't been visiting me_." She touched his arm fleetingly, then let her hand fall right back to her side. "Remember? That's not acceptable."

"Oh, yes," he smiled. "I nearly forgot."

Watching this scene, Ita was not entirely sure what she was seeing, but whatever it was was _quite_ amusing. She snickered to herself, prompting the young woman to turn her attention to her.

"I was wondering where you'd got to," she said.

"Sorry," Ita said. "I was looking at getting a new dress."

"Yes, that one won't do for much longer," the other woman said, stepping closer and eyeing Ita's tight, fraying winter gown. "We'll definitely be needing to get you some more." She looked at Diarmait, and Ita saw that this nameless woman was charming her uncle as much as he was her. She couldn't believe it. "I'll be needing one, too, I should think. Can you come by tomorrow morning with something?"

"'Course," he said. "Maybe then you can explain to me why you never told me you've been keeping my sister's daughter from me, hm?"

She laughed, cocking her head to the right. "How was I to know she was yours?"

"Why do I put up with you, woman?" he teased.

"Because you love me," she said. "And because my uncle pays you a lot of money."

"Hm," he intoned, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Perhaps only the second?"

"I doubt it."

"As you should."

"Now, remind me," she said, looking again to Ita. "Where were we going this afternoon when I lost track of you, dear?"

"Eh…the church, I believe," she responded quickly. That was where she had planned to go anyhow, though she had planned on going alone.

"Right. Well, I will see you tomorrow, Diarmait," the woman said.

"Yes, of course," he said, and he went back behind his table.

The woman took Ita by the arm and began leading her away from the market, and it wasn't until the top of the church building was in sight, and beyond a tall stone building, that courage and curiosity won and Ita dared to look closer at her. The woman was probably only a year or so older than Ita, with light brown hair, perfect creamy white skin, and wide gray eyes.

"Thank you," Ita said.

"For what?"

"You answered for me before I made a fool of myself."

"Oh, never mind that. That was nothing," the woman smiled.

"Why did you do it?"

"Because I want to help you," she said.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Brigid," she said. "My uncle, Cadhla, is the lord who looks over this town. He pays _your_ uncle to provide all our fabrics."

"Diarmait is doing well for himself," Ita noted.

"Of course he is. He is very good at his job," Brigid said matter-of-factly. "And that is why I think my uncle would love to meet _you_."

"You think your uncle would love to meet me?" Ita said skeptically.

"You are the only known family of one of his favorite people," Brigid said. "And as you are alone in our city with only the clothes on your back and a very small bag, I presume you have no place to stay."

"Oh, I do," Ita said quickly. "You don't have to bother yourself with taking me in, really. But I thank you for your kindness."

"Oh, do you? Where are you staying then?"

It was a simple enough inquiry, but it seemed confrontational to Ita, who had not yet formulated a good enough lie.

"Em, I am staying with –"

"With me for the time being," Brigid cut her off, smiling brightly, making the impossibility of refusal very obvious.

"Thank you," Ita said, trying to appear grateful by returning her smile, albeit weakly. She glanced nervously over her shoulder, back toward the city gates.

"What is your name, by the way? If you're going to be staying with me, I should know your name."

"Ita," she answered.

"And you said you wanted to go to the church, Ita?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"To pray and confess," Ita said. "I haven't been able to in months."

"There is a chapel nearer to my uncle's home if you would like to use that," Brigid offered. "Father Cormac is a good friend of mine. I'm sure he would not have a problem with it."

"Maybe next time, if I am still with you the next time I decide to go," Ita said. "For now, a public church is good enough for me."

"Alright, if you insist," Brigid said. "Here we are."

Sure enough, just as she said that, Ita looked up to see the large open doorway before them. They walked inside, and Ita made her way to a bench and knelt down. Strangely enough, there, in that house of God, Ita felt further from her God than she had in months. She could not bring herself to actually pray, but she made a point of going through the motions as she sat there, thinking about what she needed to do and taking in as much of this sight as she could to tell Ivar later. Once she had finished, she smiled politely to Brigid, who stood patiently at the back of the room, and she made her way over to the confession booth and shut herself inside.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," she said in a soft, shaky voice. Glancing sideways, she caught a glimpse of the old priest sitting on the other side of the barrier. "It has been almost a year since my last confession." There was a brief moment of silence, and she let out a quiet laugh. "I don't know if I remember how to do this."

"Tell me your sins," the priest replied patiently.

"Right," Ita said.

It would have been a relief to admit everything. And this man would be required to remain silent, to not tell a soul a word of what she would say to him. She could tell him about her treachery and about the pagan lifestyle into which she was slowly but surely assimilating. About the sins she would undoubtedly be forced to commit, and about the ones she would gladly commit without a second thought. About the blood that was yet to be shed and which would be found on her hands, and about everything else. But that is not what she did.

"I," she said slowly, hesitantly, "I am guilty of lying, and of willingly withholding information."

"How many times?" he asked.

"I am afraid I have lost count, Father," she admitted with a nervous laugh.

 _And I am doing it right now,_ she thought, glancing once more at him through the barrier between them. Strangely, she felt no guilt.

As he listened, she listed transgression after transgression, crime after crime, and none of them true. Or, at least, none of them presented at full value. Mention of a little white lie here, a word about a stolen glance there. That was all she afforded him. And then, once she had completed her little half-confession, she stepped out and rejoined Brigid, who smiled again at her and took her kindly by the arm as she led Ita even further into the city, beyond the church to the large stone building where the lord lived.

Ita peered over her shoulder more than once, and each time, she could have sworn she saw someone following them. She was certain it was a man, but beyond that, any other part of his appearance was difficult to discern because he had his cloak hood pulled down, hiding his face – very odd for springtime, Ita thought. He was tall and he seemed to move in the shadows, ducking in and out of the crowd, creeping along walls and through alleys, and lurking near doorways and windows. Many things about him seemed dark and ominous and altogether unnerving. Ita tried to shrug it off, deciding it was just a coincidence and that she was only imagining things because she was so nervous. No one was following her. She was just being silly.

"My uncle is going to be so pleased to see you," Brigid said excitedly, drawing her attention back.

* * *

Through the long, winding corridors of the large stone house which belonged to Brigid's family, Ita followed her new friend. She tried to memorize the way they had come, to think of the easiest way of escape if such an incident made that necessary. But it was all so confusing, and every corridor seemed to lead to at least two more. Finally, they made it to a large dining room, where at a long wooden table about a dozen people were sat. There were all kinds of foods and smells, all unfamiliar to Ita, and many different sights, too. The people at the table were all wearing clothing of rich blues and greens and purples, made from fine fabrics that could only have come from her uncle's trading business. Blue and silver cloths of similar quality hung at the windows, extending from the ceiling to the floor.

"Brigid, so good of you to join us," said the man at the head of the table, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "Visiting the market again, were you?"

The man sitting beside him shifted in his seat and picked up his glass, looking at Brigid over the rim as he drained it.

"Yes, I was, in fact, and you'll never guess who I met there," Brigid smiled, and she sat down in the seat between the two men; she gestured for Ita to sit across from her.

"Who is this young lady, Brigid?" the first man asked, jabbing his knife in Ita's direction. "You did not tell me you were bringing an urchin home with you."

"Uncle, she is not an urchin; her name is Ita," Brigid said in a low voice. "She is the daughter of Diarmait's late sister, and she will be staying with us for a few days."

"Ah!" he exclaimed with a smile. "Well if she is a relative of Diarmait's, I have no complaints. He has been loyal to us for many years, and he has provided my family with some of the finest cloths I have ever seen."

Again, the second man shifted in his seat and he glanced over at Brigid, who, rather than returning his gaze, looked to Ita.

"He works wonders, Ita," she said. "But of course, you must already know."

"I was not aware of the extent of his work, actually," Ita said.

"Oh, you would be surprised," the man beside Brigid said, seemingly on edge.

"Aengus!" the lord cried.

"Cadhla?" he said with a tone of mock innocence.

"Must you be this way?" Brigid asked warily.

"Aengus, please, we have a guest," the lord, Cadhla, said in a hushed tone.

"Fine," Aengus said, and he put on a false smile as he stabbed his fork into a piece of meat and shoved it into his mouth.

* * *

"I am sorry again, about my husband," Brigid said, exhaling heavily as she led Ita down yet another corridor. "He's not usually this way."

Brigid had taken it upon herself to give Ita a tour of the whole place: all three floors of the main house, the cellar, the stables, and even a bit beyond the grounds. It was a lot of walking, but Ita was used to that by now. Through the deep blue drapes in the windows, Ita could see the sky growing darker by the second. She wondered about Hvitserk and what he must be thinking. He had likely gone back to the encampment without her by now in a panic, not knowing just what to tell his brothers. She was supposed to be back by now, telling Ivar everything she had learned and preparing for tomorrow. He was probably furious, and maybe a little worried. For all he knew, Ita thought, she could be dead and his plan ruined.

"It's fine," Ita said. "If it makes him uncomfortable, I can definitely find somewhere else to go for the night."

"Nonsense! Coming, Ita?" Brigid asked, turning around to look at her down the long, wide corridor.

"Eh, yes, sorry," Ita said. She had gotten distracted looking out the window; she caught back up with Brigid.

"You will sleep with me tonight, and tomorrow we will have a room prepared for you," Brigid told Ita as she walked ahead of her down the long corridor. "If you don't mind, that is."

"No, that's perfectly fine," Ita said agreeably. She swallowed hard, looking back again to the window, and she could have sworn she saw a shadow pass by it. But that was impossible. On the second floor, they were too high up for any person or animal to be visible through that window, except maybe a bird. She was imagining things again.

"Great," Brigid smiled, and she swung a door open and went in.

Brigid's room was much the same as the rest of the palace: draped in blue and green, with dozens of tall white candles on metal holders; her bed was small, but the sheets were pure white and on the table beside the bed there was a pitcher of what Ita assumed to be water, along with a book of medium size. Ita crossed the room to look at it. It was open, and on the page visible to her, she saw a beautiful picture of people and flowers of bright colors, and many dark markings in lines going across the page.

"You can read?" Ita said, her voice almost a whisper; she looked behind her at Brigid, who had sat down at a table to brush her hair.

"Can't you?"

"No," Ita shook her head. "I-" she laughed to herself and ran her fingertips over the page gently, scared she might somehow smudge the markings, "I've never even seen a book like this before."

"Really?" Brigid asked, a bit surprised. "Well maybe – if you're here long, I mean – maybe I can teach you to read."

"Thank you," Ita said, and she almost wished that could be, but she knew she couldn't set her heart on that. This girl and her uncle would probably be dead by the end of the week and Ita would be back with the Northmen.

That is, if she ever made it back to the encampment.

Through the open door, she saw Aengus pass by in the corridor, and she looked to Brigid once more.

"I don't mean to intrude, but…you do not sleep with your husband?" Ita asked.

Brigid laughed. "If the occasion calls for it I will, but no. I don't generally sleep with my husband. Why do you ask?"

"Em," she said hesitantly, "my parents shared a bed, and so did my older brother and his wife. And –" she caught herself before she said _Ubbe and Margrethe_ , and instead said, "a friend of mine and her husband do. I thought all married people did."

"Poorer people do, I suppose, because it's just more convenient that way," Brigid said thoughtfully. "I had never really thought of it before." She laughed. "You live your whole life one way, and you never even stop to consider how other people live. That's very interesting that you would point that out, Ita. Thank you for that."

Ita nodded and pulled the curtain back from the window beside the bed, and she peered out at the nearly-dark city. The sun was all but gone behind the hills now and there was an even deeper sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Allowing Brigid to take her to the lord's house was a mistake. Agreeing to stay the night was an even bigger one. She couldn't even imagine how much this had thrown Ivar's plan off course and how much trouble she would be in if she ever made it back.

In the shadows below their window, Ita could have sworn she could see the cloaked man who had followed her earlier that day. She gasped and let the curtain fall back into place, and she took a few steps back.

"What on earth is the matter?" Brigid asked, setting her hairbrush down and looking at Ita concernedly, and she got up to look out the window for herself.

"There is a man in a cloak downstairs," she said. "He's been following us since I met you."

"Probably one of the guards, love. It's fine," Brigid said with a sweet smile. "There is no one there now. Don't worry."

"Oh," Ita said, feeling rather silly as she sat on the edge of the bed, "of course."

"Well, now," Brigid said, "I think it's time you get some rest. I will be getting some, anyhow, even if you don't want to yet. If you happen to feel you can't breathe and need some fresh air at any point in the night, don't go outside. It isn't safe. There is a balcony, though, over there." She pointed to the draperies on the adjacent wall. "My uncle swears it isn't safe to breathe the night air, but I find it rather refreshing myself. You can just step out onto it for a minute if you need to. Much safer than going out and wandering the grounds, if you ask me."

"Thank you," Ita said. "I'll remember that."

Brigid went around and blew all the candles out, giving Ita enough time to get settled in and comfortable on her side of the bed before Brigid joined her, leaving one candle still lit on the small table by the door.

* * *

Ita awoke from a restless half-asleep state a few hours later to a thudding sound, like something heavy hitting stone. She sat up and listened, but there was no further noise. She looked over to Brigid, thinking that perhaps she had made the noise somehow, but she was asleep and snoring softly, her face buried in her pillow.

"Brigid," she whispered, shaking the other girl's shoulder, "Brigid, did you hear that?"

" _Hngh_ ," Brigid groaned, still mostly asleep, rolling onto her side and putting her back to Ita.

Reluctantly, Ita got out of bed and tiptoed over to the window beside the bed, but she saw nothing.

"Hm," she intoned, shrugging, ready to pin it on her imagination or a dream and go back to bed.

But as soon as she pulled the covers back to get back in, she thought she saw the curtains to the balcony window move.

"The wind, no doubt," she told herself, and she crept carefully over to the window, wanting to kick herself for not insisting on taking her sword.

She placed one shaking hand on the edge of the curtain and gripped it tightly, having to pause to take a deep breath before she could open it, and quickly, before she could change her mind, she threw it open and stepped out onto the balcony. She went to the edge to look over the railing, to see if perhaps an owl or some other night bird and flown into the wall, or if there was something downstairs. Still, there was nothing. She sighed, relieved to see as much, but before she could turn around, she felt something seize her.

An arm wrapped around her waist and she sucked in a bellyful of air, preparing to scream. A hand clapped over her mouth. She struggled to get away, but it was no use. Whoever had her was strong.

"Shh," her attacker breathed, right against her ear.

On her face, her neck, she could feel the coarse fabric of a heavy hooded cloak. She stomped on this man's foot and jabbed her elbow back, not caring what she hit. This caused him to take a step back and she took this opportunity to turn around and knee him in the crotch. He let her go then, doubling over in pain. She grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pushed him back against the railing.

"Damn it, Ita," she heard him say hoarsely.

This was the Northmen's language. Not her own. And the voice was so familiar, even full of pain.

"Hvitserk?" she said.

She threw back the hood to his cloak, and sure enough, it was him.

"Shh!" he hissed again, regaining his feet.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered.

"Keeping an eye on you. Ivar's orders," he said, and he cleared his throat. "And, of course, I was worried, too."

"Thank you," she said. "I am sorry I attacked you."

"That is alright," he said.

"Are your brothers angry?"

"Ivar is – he always is, but now I think he is furious," he sighed. "Bjorn is not happy; he is very worried, too. But Ubbe, Ubbe thought it was funny, I think. He said he expected you to turn on us, and to him, it certainly looks as though you have."

"I have not!"

"Shh!"

"Sorry," she said more quietly. "I haven't. I swear. I didn't mean to end up here."

"It's alright," he said. "We are changing the plan a little. I tried to convince Ivar that maybe this is for the best. I told him that we can use your place in this king's house to an advantage and we can use it to get more information. But he thinks it would be best for you to come home tonight."

"The man who lives in this house is not a king," Ita said.

"He certainly lives like a king," Hvitserk said, looking around.

"He is apparently a lord," Ita said.

"A lord?"

"Eh…I think you would call him an earl?" she said. "He is slightly under the king. This is his land, and he rules this city, but he answers to a king when it comes down to it."

"Very interesting," Hvitserk said, impressed. "You're already learning a lot. Good."

"I am trying," Ita said. "But I've been a little bit –"

"Can I come in?" he asked, starting to pull the curtain back, but she stepped between him and the window, giving him a stern look.

"Please don't," she hissed, anxious.

"Why? Are you scared of getting caught with a strange man in your room on your first night here?" he said jokingly. "You don't have anything to worry about, Ita, really."

"No," she said. "Brigid is in there."

He shook his head, confused. "Brigid?"

"The woman I was with earlier; she is the lord's niece."

"Oh?" His eyes lit up mischievously. "Wait till I tell Ivar. He'll just love this."

"It's not like that! She's just letting me stay here until they have a room ready for me," Ita said.

"Don't you ever have any fun?" Hvitserk asked with a quiet laugh, but when he saw the look of mixed anxiety and confusion in her eyes, he frowned. "Never mind."

"Why are you here?" she asked as she adjusted the curtain one more time.

"I'm here to take you back," he said. "You've been here long enough for today."

"I can't just leave now," she said. "Tomorrow, when I come back, won't it seem odd that I disappeared in the night?"

"They probably won't notice," he shrugged.

"Of course they will," she said.

"How can you be so sure they will even care?"

_Because they know my uncle._

But then, she couldn't tell Hvitserk about him. That would be too big of a risk, and it would make things much too complicated.

"I just…I can't come home tonight," she said. "There are things still to learn and I can't just disappear. Not yet."

"When?"

"A day or two more. Please, Hvitserk."

"Alright," he sighed. "But…please be careful. I'll be back tomorrow."

"Alright," she agreed. "Goodnight."

"Night."

He pulled his hood back over his head, and he threw a leg over the side of the balcony. She laughed once.

"What?" he asked, stopping to look at her.

"Your clothes," she said. "They're not your own. Where did you get them?"

"Does it matter?" he said with a half-smirk.

She shook her head. "No."

"Goodnight, Ita," he chuckled, and he carefully climbed back over the other side of the balcony and lowered himself to the ground.

She watched for a while until he had disappeared in the distance around some building or other and went on over the city wall.


	10. 10

If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita

Chapter 10

It was nearly light when Hvitserk made it back to camp. He nodded to the guards on his way into his brothers' tent, and upon seeing Ivar sitting up awake so early in the morning, he paused a moment, bracing himself for whatever verbal lashing was coming.

"I'm sure you already know what I am about to ask," Ivar said without even looking at his brother. He kept his eyes low, glued on the droplets of liquid on the rim of the cup in his hands.

"I assure you, she is safe," Hvitserk said.

"Oh?"

"I saw her myself not long ago," he explained. "She is staying with the ruler of the city and his family."

Ivar looked up then, eyebrows raised. "You left her with them?"

"She insisted," Hvitserk said, settling down in a chair across from him. "She asked to spend the night so that upon her return they would not suspect anything. Anyhow, brother, it hardly makes any difference. If I had brought her home when I found her, she would have only been going right back in. It is nearly daylight now."

" _It hardly makes any difference_?" Ivar said, quite a bit louder. "Hvitserk, she is our only link to these people. If we lose her, we may well lose the city. All this hard work and planning will be for nothing. We will be going in blind!"

"I only meant that it would not make sense to take her out and make her go right back in," Hvitserk replied. "We agreed to meet again tomorrow – well, today."

"Good. Go into the city as soon as you can without looking suspicious, and bring her back here," Ivar said.

"Don't you think she needs a bit more time to learn some more? If we take her out too soon, it could ruin everything," Hvitserk said.

"I didn't say I was keeping her here."

* * *

It was a little riskier this way, going in during the day, walking around without the cloak, and without any weapon but a small knife tucked in his pocket; but nonetheless Hvitserk made his way up the road and through the market toward the lord's house. He glanced over to the balcony and the vines he had scaled the night before to get to Ita's room. Surely she would have been moved by now to a different room, and there were now others who would see him if he tried the same thing again. Loitering would have to be enough.

He picked a wall and leaned against it, watching the people as they passed, mostly men, a few women, even fewer children. Most of them, he deduced, were guards or servants, as they all seemed to be doing some kind of job that pertained to the upkeep of the house and its inhabitants. It was impressive, really, just how many people it took. He would have to remember that once the house was under the new management.

But after a while, standing and waiting idly became tiresome and he decided to take action. He looked around, and once he was sure no one was watching, he walked along the wall as he had the night before until he reached the vined trellis and he climbed quickly and quietly up to the balcony. Before he even pulled himself up all the way onto it, he heard laughter and talking – and a man's voice. He stood carefully and pulled back the curtain just enough to look inside with one eye.

"You look wonderful," the man's voice said.

In the center of the room, Hvitserk could see Ita standing in a long, flowing pale blue dress, and behind her, doing up the buttons, was a man just a few inches taller than she was with short black hair. He touched her shoulder and she turned around to face him, a bright smile on her face, and she hugged him.

"Thank you," she said.

"It's the truth, love," he said.

Ita touched the man's cheek. "I am so happy to see you again."

"Then don't leave," he said. "Stay here."

"You know I can't do that," she said, looking a bit sad.

"Then tell me where you're going."

"I…I can't," she shook her head.

"I haven't seen you in over a year and you're already telling me you have to leave," he said.

She laughed tiredly and shook her head again, lowering her eyes. The man placed his hand under her chin and made her look at him again. He smiled, and he wiped a tear from her eye before it fell, making her smile back.

"It's for the best," she said.

"Are you running from something?" he asked. "What's happened in this last year Ita? What have you done? Whatever it is, I can help."

She shook her head. "No, nothing. I'm just happy to see you again."

Hvitserk let the curtain fall, disgusted. Who was this man? How did Ita know him? He could only assume it was some former lover. Maybe a husband, based on how they were acting. He didn't like the way it looked.

Having seen enough, he lowered himself to the ground again, but before his feet even touched down, a voice behind him startled him, causing him to land flat on his ass instead of his feet. His head bolted up and in front of him stood a uniformed guard with a sword at his hip. Hvitserk jumped to his feet, his heart racing. He didn't understand what the guard was saying to him, but he sounded angry and he was moving toward him with considerable speed. So Hvitserk took his chance to turn around and run.

* * *

Ita had never seen a mirror before, but there was a very large one in her new bedroom in Lord Cadhla's house. She discovered it soon after Diarmait had brought her her new clothes and Brigid had shown her to her room. Ita was far from vain, but she knew that if given the opportunity, she could have spent the whole day standing in front of it, staring at her own reflection. It was much clearer than the murky, rippled, translucent reflection of herself she sometimes saw in water; this reflection almost looked like another person was standing directly in front of her, doing just as she did as soon as she did it. She had never seen anything like it before.

Down the hall, she heard a high, surprised scream, which pulled her out of the distraction of this fascinating and perplexing mirror world. Quickly, she ran out her door in the direction of the scream, having traced it back to Brigid's room.

_Damn it, Hvitserk, if you're stupid enough to –_

But then she heard something strange: a laugh. Ita slowed her pace, confused, and slightly less concerned. The door to Brigid's bedroom was slightly ajar, and Ita could see some movement inside. Curiously, she peered in, and against the far wall, Ita could see Brigid with her hands in Diarmait's short black hair as he kissed her neck. Brigid's skirt was pulled up much too high and one of her legs was wound around his waist. His trousers hung lower than usual and his hips were moving in a slow, steady rhythm. Brigid moaned softly and smiled, kissing his shoulder as he grabbed her other leg and wrapped it around his waist.

"Shit," Ita muttered, averting her eyes, and she continued walking.

That was something she probably should never have seen. She knew it was something she never _wanted_ to have seen. She kept walking until she made it outside, and even further until she made it to the field behind the house where a few yards off she could see the stable houses. Ita settled down on the ground and looked around, admiring the golden-brown sunbaked grass which was peppered with little yellow flowers. It was soothing, and much more worthy of admiration than her mirror. The voice inside her head told her that she should be getting to know the layout of the city a little better, or trying to find Hvitserk, but after all she had been through in the last year, she thought she deserved to sit for a minute and admire the landscape. And anyhow, she technically was getting to know the layout of the city – she had just found the lord's stable houses. That ought to be worth something.

" _Seamus, no! Come back! Don't bother that lady!_ " she heard a child's voice shouting behind her, and when she looked around, she saw a large shaggy gray dog lumbering toward her, chased by a small boy with blonde hair.

The dog did a fine job of ignoring its little master as it nearly crashed into her, stopping just in time to bump into her shoulder. She laughed and petted its head, having to reach quite high.

_This dog might be bigger than Bjorn_ , she thought amusedly. _About as vicious as I've seen him be so far, too._

"Well, hello there," she said, letting the dog lick her hand.

"I'm sorry about my dog," the boy said, out of breath.

"He's alright. He seems nice enough," she said.

"He's supposed to be a guard dog. That's what me dad says anyway, but I say he's about as good a guard dog as I am," the boy said. "He'll more likely lick you to death than attack. Not that I'll lick you, but you know what I mean."

"He's probably quite intimidating from a distance, I bet," she said with a smile. "Aren't you, Seamus? You're probably right terrifying."

"Hey, I ain't seen you around before," the boy said, putting his hands on his hips and scrutinizing Ita.

"'Cause I ain't from here," she said.

"Didn't think so," he said.

"And why's that?"

"You're not so proper as Lady Brigid, not that she's exactly proper neither."

"I know what you mean," Ita chuckled.

"And you talk different," he added.

"I talk different, do I?" she said.

"Yeah, you talk like my dad and me, not like one of these proper ladies," he said.

"I guess that's because I came from a family like yours and your dad's," she said.

"What's your name?" he asked, sitting down in front of her.

"Ita."

"Like the saint?" he said excitedly, almost bouncing.

"Yes, I suppose so. Like the saint," she said. "What about yourself?"

"Padraig," he beamed, "like the saint also."

"Well it's nice to meet you, Padraig," she said. "And you, too, Seamus!" She scratched the dog's chest gently.

"He says it's nice to meet you, too," Padraig said, sitting up on his knees and rubbing the dog's ears. "He also wants me to ask you why you're out here in the grass in your fancy clothes."

"I didn't want to stay in there all day and I don't got much else to wear out in the grass," she said.

"Well why're you out in the grass at all? Don't ladies have appointments and lessons and things?"

"You ask a lot of questions, Padraig," Ita said.

"I just want to know things," he shrugged. "Me mother says questions are good for learning."

"Your mother is very right," she answered. "You know, maybe you could help me with some learning."

"What is it you're needing to learn?" he asked, cocking his head to the side.

"Could you tell me how to get to the main road from here?" she asked.

"Oh, it's just around the house and that way up the road that crosses in front of the house," he said, and he pointed to show her.

"Thank you very much, Padraig," she said with a smile, and she stood, brushing herself off.

"You're welcome."

"Now you and Seamus take care of yourselves and don't go getting into any trouble. Try to teach him some better guard dog behaviors," she said.

He laughed. "Alright."

"Be safe," she said. "Maybe I'll see you around another time."

"See you," he said, waving to her as she walked off.

He was a sweet kid, she thought, and she wondered as she walked back up to the road if the Northmen spared children. She hoped they did. Ita looked up, and across the road ahead of her, sitting lazily under a tree, she saw Hvitserk. She smiled as she crossed the road to meet him, glad to see him and slightly amused at the sight of him in the clothes of an Irish peasant.

He nodded for her to join him, a frown on his face.

"Hvitserk," she said as she stood over him, "is something wrong?"

"Do you want to tell me what's going on here, Ita?" he asked, his voice low.

Confused, she shook her head. "What do you mean?"

"I saw you with a man this morning. A man who said he knew you and hadn't seen you in over a year," he said. "You two seemed rather friendly, at least to my eyes." He looked past her, nodding to the field where she had just come from where the boy and his dog were seen playing in the knee-high grass. "And I just saw you playing with a little boy just young enough, I'd say, to be your _child_. Who are you, Ita? Why are we here?"

"You don't understand," she said, kneeling in front of him where he sat, and he sat up, putting his face just inches away from hers.

"I don't?" he asked harshly. "Then you had best explain yourself."

She jabbed a finger up in the direction of the balcony. "That _man_ is my uncle. His name is Diarmait and he is the younger half-brother of my mother. He was like a brother to me growing up and he is the closest thing I have ever had to a friend my own age. But he is family, nothing more. And the little boy, I would guess, is the son of one of the lord's servants. I've never seen him before in my life. His dog came barreling out of the stables at me and he chased it out."

"Really?" he said skeptically.

"Really," she said in affirmation.

His expression softened after a moment, and he nodded. "Suppose I choose to believe that?"

"I would be grateful, especially considering it is the truth," she said.

"Alright," he sighed. "I won't tell Ivar either way."

"Thank you," she said.

"But," he started, standing and offering her his hand, "I did tell Ivar that I would bring you back today. Just for the afternoon."

"Sounds good to me."

"You're sure you won't be missed?"

She glanced back up to the balcony. "Oh, I think they're a bit distracted at the moment."

So they went on up the road toward the city gates, and they weren't stopped once. At least, not until they tried to pass through, out of the city. The guard, a tall, broad Scot who was almost a whole head taller than Hvitserk, barred their way, eyeing them suspiciously. Ita put her shoulders back and raised her chin. She straightened her back and did her best to hide her limp as they made their way closer to the guard at the gate.

"Hey, where do you two think you're going?" he asked, giving his attention to Hvitserk.

But before Hvitserk could respond or give any indication that he did not understand, Ita jumped in with, "We're going to visit my sister. Should be back by nightfall, sir."

"Aye, and you're bringing your stable boy with you?" he said, jabbing a thumb at Hvitserk.

"He isn't a stable boy," she said.

"Who is he then?"

"My brother's servant," she said quickly. "My own lady's maid has the day off, you see, and anyway two young ladies walking all alone wouldn't be safe, now would it?"

"Ah," the guard nodded, still visibly in disbelief, but he let them pass. "Just make sure that you _are_ back by nightfall."

"I will," she said with an innocent little smile. "Thank you."

Once they were just out of earshot of the gate, Hvitserk looked at her, eyes wide in confusion.

"What the fuck was that about?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"What did you say to him?"

"That I'm going to visit my sister and I'm bringing my brother's manservant with me," she said. "Promised him we'd be back by nightfall."

"Why did you tell him that?" Hvitserk said, obviously not overjoyed by being called someone's manservant.

"Did you want me to tell him the truth?"

"No!" he cried. "But the next town isn't for miles – it would probably take hours just to get there. He'll surely know that, so what sister could you possibly be going to visit that you could return by nightfall? You may be a good liar, but that one was terrible!"

"Calm down," she chuckled. "He probably thinks we're just going to have sex in the woods. It doesn't matter if he believed my story or not."

"You know, I was wrong about you," Hvitserk said with a laugh.

"What do you mean?"

"You aren't as crazy as Ivar," he said. "You might just be crazier."

"I'm not the full-grown Viking walking around a quiet little city wearing dirty stolen clothes that don't even fit me right," she said. "At least I can play the part."

"Oh yeah?" he teased.

"Yes," she said, quite properly. "For that guard, I was a proper lady, who…may or may not have been so proper, truth be told – but she was good at covering it up. For Brigid, I'm an innocent girl with a limp who happens to be related to the servant she's secretly sharing her bed with. And when I spoke with that little boy out in the field, I was a kind, simple peasant girl, despite the lady's clothing. The only people I can't put on a mask for are my uncle, and you and your brothers. You shouldn't underestimate me, you know. I know what I'm doing."

"Yes, and you're being very reckless about it," he said.

She laughed, leaning in close as they continued down the road. "That's what keeps it interesting," she said in a low voice, and he laughed, too.


	11. 11

If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita

Chapter 11

_The gates were guarded in the daytime by four men at least at each entrance – north, south, east, and west. But at night, there was posted only one guard at each. Then, too, everyone would be sleeping and no one would suspect a thing. Send in a few silent assassins to kill the guards where they stood, and the city was free for the taking. A night raid would be best. It had worked wonderfully a number of times before. Yes, it certainly had._

Not that Ivar had seen any night raids before. He just needed an adjustment to his plan, and quick. He went through every option available, with every outcome possible, in his head as he sat alone in the tent long after his brothers had left him. He hadn't slept in two days for having to construct and reconstruct how he should direct his army to ensure that the city was theirs. He had to make his father proud. He had to make the gods proud. He had to increase his glory and his fame at any cost. And becoming the king of this city would be just the thing to do that.

_But attacking at midday, or first thing in the morning as they had initially planned, would make for a more exciting fight and more of a show. And it would keep the realm of comfort in battle within arm's reach._

He stood and went to the door of his tent. The sun was now quite high in the sky and clouds were rolling in, threatening rain. He yawned and scratched his head as he looked around. This land was rich and plentiful and beautiful, and the temperature was much more bearable than in Kattegat. He loved the warm weather and the green grass. It was almost peaceful – or at least the closest thing to peaceful he could stand that didn't involve a drink or a woman.

The only thing he really didn't like was the rain. It left the ground muddy and soft and almost impossible to trudge across on his crutch. Not only that, the changing weather hurt his legs. Unfortunately, it felt like it rained half the year.

_If it is raining during the raid, whatever advantage the time of day gives us will not matter. Things could even be set more off schedule and against the plan. By the gods, it better not rain._

Ivar ran a hand through his hair and then over his face. It had been thirteen years since his father's death, twelve since his first time fighting a real battle, and ten since the civil war. Nine since his brothers had rejoined forces.

_No, ten._

He had forgotten he had been in this country for a year now. So all his calculations were now off by a year. He sighed and offered one more glance up at the sky before going back inside and pouring himself another cup of stale mead.

Every day since the war, every attack and every battle since, he found himself looking forward less and less to it all. He still longed for the rush of battle and the sense of pride and exhilaration that came after it was all said and done. But now he was seeking a feeling, and the actual violence and brutality meant less.

Sure, he was still angry. He always would be. Fighting helped with that, in a way. In others, it hurt him. It made him tired, and it made him weak. Sometimes, he would come home after a fight and he couldn't walk for days afterward, forced to either sit around or resort back to crawling as he had for so long.

He blamed his legs, his bones, and even his age. At twenty-eight, he had outlived many other young warriors with the same anger and frustration he felt – and they were healthier than him, physically and mentally. He had gained a little more control over the way his moods changed, so maybe it was his age. Maturity, Ubbe called it. Maybe that wasn't it, either. He didn't know, and he tried not to think about it. A calm, mild-mannered Viking was not an honorable Viking. Wasn't really much of a Viking at all. That is why he took his father's advice and continued to cling to his anger after all these years.

"Ivar," Bjorn said from the door, drawing him partially out of his own thoughts.

He glanced up at his eldest brother. "Yes?"

"Have you decided what should be done yet?" Bjorn asked. "One of the men said he saw Hvitserk coming back with the girl. We'll need a plan ready to discuss when they arrive."

"Yes, I think I have an idea," he said quietly, and he walked past his brother out of the tent.

* * *

"I feel very strange of late," Lord Cadhla said as he sat upon his large, blue, almost throne-like chair in the eastern wing of the house.

"Should I call a doctor, my lord?" asked his valet.

"No," the lord said, shaking his head. "Not that kind of strange. I mean, I just have this uneasy feeling."

"Could it be the weather then? The equinox is nearing, and you know that always plays with your head."

"No." He shook his head again, looking at the young man to his left. "I can't explain it, but it feels rather unnatural."

"Is there anything I can do, lord?"

"I don't think so," he sighed. "Nothing more than listen to the musings and worrying of an old man."

"Of course, my lord," the valet said with a slight bow.

"Actually," the lord said, "tell the guards to increase their numbers at the gates twofold, and to post one extra man at each door."

"Yes, my lord," he replied, and went on his way down the steps and to the head guard, who stood silently at the door.

* * *

" _My, my, my_ …look who has decided to return to us," Ubbe said when he saw Ita enter the meeting tent of the Sons of Ragnar.

He was the only one present, aside from the guards at the door.

"I never exactly decided to stay away, just so you're aware," Ita said. "At least not until I realized my staying in the village could be to our advantage."

"Hm," he intoned with a respectful smirk.

"But yes, I am back," she said, returning his smirk. "For now. Where is Ivar? I've been told he desires to speak with me."

"We all do, actually. We're to have a meeting. But he's around here somewhere," Ubbe said, and he stood with an effortful grunt. "I'll see if I can find him."

He left and returned several minutes later with the rest of his brothers. Around the table, they sat and discussed how the plan should be altered to accommodate her new residence.

"We're compromising Hvitserk's safety, I think, sending him in everyday unarmed and alone," Ita said. "It's enough to do that to me – I can talk my way out. He can't. He can't communicate with these people and he doesn't know anyone but me, and we can't be seen in each other's company at all hours of the day."

"I agree with Ita," Bjorn said. "How long before they become suspicious?"

Everyone nodded or uttered a noise of agreement to this rhetorical statement.

"We could raid sooner," Ivar suggested.

"I think it is still too soon," Ubbe said, leaning forward. "Ita may not have everything in order."

"Yes, and if we fail, then what? We will be forced to retreat with Ita left behind to bear the brunt of our mistake," Bjorn said. "No doubt they would place the blame on her as the raid would coincide too closely with her arrival in the city."

Ivar scoffed. "And waiting four extra days would make any difference where that is concerned?"

"I think even just one extra day would make all the difference," Ubbe said.

"You just think –" Ivar started to argue, but was quickly interrupted.

"One extra day is just enough time," Ita said, almost too calmly, even for her liking. "I don't like putting it off. If we're going to raid, let's just get it over with. Ivar's right – we're plenty ready and we've waited long enough. But we can wait just a little longer. One day. Do you think you could get everything in order by day after tomorrow?"

In the pregnant pause which followed, Ivar and Ubbe both visibly retreated from their argument, each leaning back in his seat and looking at her with slack jaws as Bjorn leaned forward, a concerned look in his eyes.

"Are you absolutely positive you want to go through with this, Ita?" he asked. "This soon?"

She shrugged.

"There isn't anything you still need to figure out or get in order before we do this?" Hvitserk asked, giving her a look as though to say, "Are you concerned at all for your uncle's safety? What is to be done about him?"

She swallowed hard. She still didn't know what should be done about him. He needed to be protected, or at least warned, but she didn't know if she could do that. And it was too late to add this piece to the playing board so late in the game.

"Yes, I think that is plenty of time to set things in order," she said, flashing a small false grin to reassure them.

In the end, it was decided that Ita would return to the city for the night. Meanwhile, the Sons of Ragnar would set the plan into motion, preparing the army for battle and getting everything in order. Ita would meet them all again the morning of the raid at sunrise to receive a pack with her clothes for battle, which she would stow under one of the church benches until she needed them. Then she would go back and start chatting up one of the guards, and – as soon as everything was perfectly in place – she would give the signal, a simple wave of her hand as she spoke, and they would make their move. Ita would then make her way calmly back to the church, change clothes, and wait for Hvitserk to bring her sword and shield to her.

It all seemed so simple, so foolproof.

* * *

Bjorn found Torvi about an hour later in the tent belonging to three young shield maidens. She knelt behind one, helping her plait her hair tightly to her head and telling some grand story about the defeat of King Aelle. She had not been there, of course, but she got most of it right. At least, right so far as the sagas told. He smiled, glad to see her where she was always happiest, being a mother and a teacher. That is what she was born to be. She should never have been forced to enter the world of blood and battle. That was his arena. She was a gifted fighter, and she enjoyed it, but he could see how it hurt her, too, especially after losing her son Guthrum so many years ago.

"The king was blood eagled by the Sons of Ragnar?" the girl in front of Torvi asked, turning just a bit to look over her shoulder.

Torvi nodded, tying off a final plait. "By Ivar the Boneless."

"Ah, but there is where you are wrong, my love," Bjorn said softly and with a little smile as he stepped past them and knelt down.

"Oh, I'm wrong, am I?" Torvi asked teasingly. "Then why don't you tell us, since you were there, O Bjorn Ironside."

He looked from his ex-wife to the young girl in front of her. She couldn't have been more than fifteen years old, still a girl, so small and so weak. But her eyes gleamed with excitement and fascination as she listened intently for his version of the story.

"It was I who blood eagled King Aelle," he said.

"You?" the girl asked, her eyes widening even more.

"Yes," he responded. "With the help of Floki, the boat builder." He looked back to Torvi. "Ivar merely sat back and watched. He was only a boy then," his eyes met the girl's once more, "about your age, I'll bet. He had never even seen a blood eagle that he could remember. So of course it was me."

"My," the girl said breathlessly.

Bjorn smiled at her and patted her on the shoulder as he stood. "Torvi, I needed to speak with you."

"Alright," she said as she checked all the plaits in the girl's hair, preparing to tie them all back into a ponytail.

" _Alone_."

"Well, I don't see why that's necessary, but alright," she said, and she stood, too, to follow him out. "I'll be right back, ladies."

* * *

Ita remained in the encampment for the rest of the day, not sure she was ready to leave them yet again. Sure, she enjoyed Brigid's company and she loved getting to see her uncle again, but there was something about these Northmen that felt just a little more like home to her than a city full of people who were practically her own. Even as the clouds began to roll in and threaten rain, she stayed, wandering around aimlessly until finally Ivar found her in her tent, where she sat on the dirt floor. In her hands, she held something small, just out of his line of sight. She turned it in her hands slowly, looking at it from every angle.

"Hey," Ivar said softly from the door of the tent.

She looked up and tucked whatever it was into her pocket. "Hello."

"You're still here," he said, coming in and letting the door fall shut behind him. "Why?"

"Not ready to go back yet, I guess," she sighed.

"Do you not like it there?"

"No, I do, but…I like it here, too," she said. "But I don't really feel like I should be in either place."

He frowned, then nodded.

"Now isn't the time for some big existential crisis," she said. "Forget I said it."

"Oh, I think everyone probably has some kind of existential crisis just before a big raid," he said.

"Even you?"

He laughed quietly, shaking his head. "Sometimes."

She looked down at her arms where they rested on her knees, at the soft blue material of her sleeves which were just beginning to stain. Sweat, dirt, grass – Padraig was right; she shouldn't have gone out in such a dress. Hell, she shouldn't even have a dress like this in the first place.

"That's good to know, I guess," she said, and she smiled up at him. "I was meaning to give you this."

From her pocket, she withdrew a small, round stone and held it out to him.

"What is it?" he asked, taking it in his hand and turning it over.

"It's from the stream in the woods," she said. "It's – well, it's sort of like something my father used to do. Any time he would go away, he would give me a stone like this one."

"Are you going away?"

She said nothing, but looked at him stoically.

"You're – you're crazy," he said, the realization of what she must have meant gradually dawning on him. He shook his head and tried to give it back, but she wouldn't take it. "This raid will be easy. And afterward we will celebrate. You have nothing to worry about."

"How do you know? I've never experienced anything like this," she said. "The closest thing to battle I've ever experienced is training with your brothers out in the woods, and –"

He shook his head angrily. "A raid is not battle," he insisted, interrupting her.

"May as well be," she said.

"You know nothing about either one!" he shouted.

" _That is my point, Ivar!_ " she shouted back.

"Really? Because I thought your point was that you were planning on dying – on _leaving!_ "

"I don't want to die, Ivar, but we must keep in mind that it is entirely within the realm of possibility!" she screamed.

And as she did, she stood up to face him, sending him stumbling a few steps back and almost onto the ground. He caught his balance and stepped closer so that he looked down upon her.

"No, it fucking isn't," he said, lowering his voice. "And I just want you to know that if you do die in this raid like a _fool_ , on the day that Odin comes to take me into Valhalla, I will have him lead me straight to the gates of your _Heaven_ so that I can storm in and drag you back out by your hair."

"Why do you care so much?" she asked. "Why do you care about me? Why didn't you kill me when you had the chance and save time? Or if you wanted to keep me safe and sound with you so badly, like some kind of animal, why didn't you make me a slave? Hvitserk said –"

"I don't give a damn what Hvitserk said."

"Tell me why you care."

"Now, or then, when I found you?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

The angry, bitter scowl fell from his face. "It doesn't matter."

"God _damn_ you," she said with a frustrated little chuckle.

"Oh, he probably will if he is the one true, supreme god you believe he is," Ivar said with that familiar little half-smirk, which soon faded away. He sighed and held up the stone again for just a moment before letting his hand fall to his side again. "What am I supposed to do with this?" he asked calmly.

She smiled sadly. "Well that's the other half of the tradition. I give it to you. You keep it until you see me again. Then you can return it."

"Just, return it, as though you never gave it to me in the first place?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, "with a kiss."

He nodded slowly, a satisfied little grin on his face.

"Although, that part is optional," she said playfully. "The kiss, I mean. When I was a little girl, I would kiss my father on the cheek, but as I got older…not so much."

"But you always returned it?" he asked, still confused as to why anyone would return a gift.

"He always got his stone back when I saw him again," she said. Quietly, and mostly to herself, she added, "I still have the last one, though."

"And you will get this one back," he said, very serious.

* * *

Bjorn led Torvi through the labyrinth of tents and fires and warriors, down the hill which faced the woods, and to the very edge of the encampment. He was very quiet, she noticed, and she wondered to herself if there was possibly something wrong. By now, he very well could have changed his mind and decided not to take her back to Kattegat with him after the raid. He probably had some new adventure all lined up – some exploration of the Eastern World and beyond, across the sea until he fell of the edge of the earth or else found another way around. And she would be left all alone in her old age, to die forgotten by her people and by her children who, truth be told, had all long ago moved their separate ways and neglected to do so much as come asking for her. It wouldn't surprise her if Bjorn left her, too – _again,_ after all these years.

She looked up at him nervously, and he smiled back at her, that same comforting, loving smile she had known almost as long as she had known him.

"Torvi," he said, coming to a halt.

"Yes?"

"My brothers and Ita have agreed to raid the day after tomorrow," he said.

"Alright," she said simply.

"Are you sure you want to raid with us?" he asked. "It may be better if you stayed here this time."

"Why are you saying this?"

"I just think you would be safer here, and you would be able to protect the camp if you needed to. There are many others who came this far who are not going to raid."

"I want to be down there," she said. "With my sisters. We have trained long and hard. And you said yourself just the other day that this was going to be an easy raid."

"When was the last time you fought? Hm?"

"I fight all the time, Bjorn."

"You _train_ ," he corrected her, "with children and young women."

"I will be fine, Bjorn," she said, smiling as she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Believe me. You know me. I am a good warrior."

He sighed. "I…I just wish you never had to be. It is my fault you ever even had to become one in the first place."

"No it isn't," she said with a laugh. "I did what I had to do, for myself and for my son, and I do not regret what it has all led to." She touched his face gently, almost maternally. "This is the last time I will ever do this, and I _want_ to do this. Then I will come home with you and live as a quiet, comfortable…crazy old woman, with a hundred stories to tell."

"I would expect nothing less," he smiled. "But –"

"This raid will just be another story," she interrupted. "Do not worry."

* * *

It was strange to think that a stone barely the size of the end of his thumb could weigh so heavily in Ivar's pocket as he walked with Ita down the same path they had wandered down a few nights before. He walked a few paces behind her, watching as she stepped carefully over the rocks and sticks, her shoes in one hand and her raised skirt in the other. Rarely did he ever find another human being's movements so beautiful. Watching her, though, was like watching a bird or some otherworldly spirit as it passed through so lightly and freely.

"My brother Fergus took me down this path once before," she said. "Did I tell you that?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Oh, yes," she said, peering over her shoulder at him, a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "We used to play in these woods, he and I and my other two brothers. And sometimes my uncle, too." She stopped suddenly and turned to look at him. "I've only been down this path twice though. Once with Fergus, and once with you."

"Twice with me now," Ivar said, offering her a little grin as he came up beside her.

"Of course," she nodded.

"These woods are very far from where you are from, aren't they? What were you doing this far?"

"We would pretend to have adventures," she said, and she continued walking. The stream was almost within sight now. "Mother wasn't so worried, so long as we made it back by sundown the next day."

"My mother would have been worried sick if I were gone for more than a few hours," he said.

She nodded. "Mine was, too, sometimes. Secretly I think she would have been relieved if one of us had not come home."

"That is a horrible thing to say," he said, though he had to admit a part of him understood. It must have been difficult for a single peasant woman to take care of so many children. "It is your mother you are talking about. She loved you, I'm sure."

"Oh, she loved us, of course," Ita said, shaking her head, "I just think it was a lot for her to deal with, raising us alone."

The path ended right at the stream, in the same place they had been before. Ita went down to the water's edge and stepped into the ankle-deep water. It was cool and clear, and in the midafternoon light, she could see it a lot better. A little ways out, she could see a school of small fish as they swam downstream, following the flow of the water, and she followed them with her eyes until they disappeared from sight. Beneath her feet was soft brown mud, and dozens of stones just like the one she had given to Ivar.

"A lot of Celtic mythology is based on water," she said. "Did you know that?"

"Mythology?" He gave her a confused look.

"Eh…paganism," she hesitated. "What we practiced before we were Christian, hundreds of years ago."

"Like what I believe?"

"Sort of," she nodded.

"And you call that mythology?"

"I…yes, I suppose so," she said.

"But a myth is something fake," he said.

"Well, the vast majority of my people believe it _is_ fake," she said.

"Do you?" he asked, making her pause and think.

"I don't know," she shook her head. "I suppose it might be real."

He nodded, but didn't press further.

"But I think it is so funny," she said, "that it is my people who believed so much in water gods when it is your people who are known for being sailors."

"If we dwelt upon what may be in the water, we might not want to go sailing," he said jestingly.

"I want to go sailing someday," she said, coming back ashore and sitting beside him.

"I'm sure you will."

"Would you take me with you when you leave?"

"What makes you think I'm leaving?" he asked.

"Your people never really stay anywhere for very long, do they? You always come in, kill, rape and pillage, and leave as soon as you've come," she said, her brow beginning to furrow with worry. "I'm assuming once you've gotten what you want here, you'll do the same."

"The plan is to stay here as long as possible and make this land our own, Ita. You don't have to worry about me leaving," he said. "But if I do travel somewhere, I will take you with me if you want to go."

She smiled. "Thank you."

He leaned in to kiss her chastely, but even after he did, his lips lingered on hers, barely touching. She kissed him back, a little less innocently this time. This was very possibly the last time they would have the opportunity to do this, she realized, and as stupid and banal and unoriginal as that thought was, she didn't really seem to care.

He deepened the kiss, pulling her in closer until she was in his lap, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. She untied the leather string which held his hair back and ran a hand through his hair, smiling when she heard him groan deep in his throat. He hooked his hands behind her knees to pull her even closer and wrap her legs around him.

"I want you," he breathed, breaking the kiss to bury his face in her neck.

"I'm right here," she whispered, not realizing what he had meant until she felt one of his hands sliding up her inner thigh. " _Oh._ "

"Is something wrong?" he asked, pausing to look at her.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Not at all."

She kissed his lips again, and rather than letting her nerves take hold of her, she put her hand on his and slowly diverted it away from where it was headed. She wanted him to touch her, but she was concerned. Her body was reacting in a way she wasn't used to, and she had no way of knowing if it was normal. And she certainly wasn't ready for Ivar to tell her yet if it wasn't. So she placed his hand on her hip. Without protest, he ran his hand up her side and around to her back, where he undid a few buttons to pull the dress down over one of her shoulders. His lips traveled lazily down her jaw to her neck, and further down to her shoulder.

She sighed pleasantly and kissed his neck once, letting her hand slide down one of his arms to rest on his hand on her waist. It slipped out from under hers and pushed its way under her skirt again. She didn't protest this time. But just as she was about to let him have his way, the bottom of the sky fell out and rain began to pour heavily over them where they sat.

"Of course," she said with a light laugh, and she let her head fall onto his shoulder before looking him in the eye again.

She was surprised she hadn't noticed the sprinkling of water droplets that usually preluded the rain. If she had, that certainly would have cut things short long before, and given them a bit of a head start back to camp.

He laughed, too, and pressed one last chaste kiss to her lips. "We should get back."

"We should," she said, standing and pulling the top of her dress back up. She tapped one of his braces. "Got to get you back before you rust."

She helped him up and he fixed the buttons for her that he had undone, and they went quietly back to the encampment as quickly as two half-cripples could manage. Resetting his expression to a more stoic one once more, he entered ahead of her and went on into his own tent with only a quiet farewell and an, "I will see you before the raid," to which she replied with a polite nod and made her way past the dying fires toward the city.

"Do you need me to walk you back?" Hvitserk had asked in passing.

"No, I won't make you go off in this. Get inside and stay dry," she said, and he went inside as she ran on down the hill.

Through the pouring rain Ita ran with bare feet, splashing through puddles, her skirt dragging limply through the muck. She went down the hills until she made it to the gate, which was now unguarded due to the heavy rain, and she went right through, and ran straight up the main road, through the vacant marketplace, and down to the door of Lord Cadhla's house. There, she was not so surprised to be met by a guard this time. What did surprise her, however, was the fact that it was the same guard who she had passed on her way out of the city earlier that same day.

"Lady Brigid's been asking about you, lass," he said. "Told her not to worry and that you'd be back by nightfall. She's probably worried by now, though, since it's quite a bit after nightfall."

"She'll live," Ita chuckled, stepping past him when he opened the door and going into the front corridor.

"By the way, where's the boy you left here with this afternoon?" he asked.

"What boy?"

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"I don't remember any boy, now, do you?" she said, and she smiled mischievously.

He laughed and nodded. "Right. My mistake."

"Thank you!" she called down to him on her way up the stairs.


	12. 12

If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita

Chapter 12

The pale moon, now low in the sky, guided Ita as she climbed out her window and crept through the streets, bag in hand. She walked noiselessly through the now empty marketplace, all the way through to the city gates. There was only one guard at this hour.

That came as a surprise. Normally, there were none from about the third hour after midnight until at least daybreak – a three hour block which would have granted her secrecy and freedom. But being a friend of the young Lady of the town, Ita was able to simply walk right through and over the hill to where the Sons of Ragnar were waiting to give her the final instructions.

She was nervous, but she knew that if she could just make it through the day, the night would be much better. She would celebrate the Northmen's victory – _her_ victory – and she could sleep more easily at night from then on.

At least…that is what Ivar had promised her. Ita didn't know how true all that was, or what it all meant for the people of this city. She only kept her mind trained on one thing: getting the raid over with as quickly as possible so she could stop fretting so much about it all.

* * *

"You are still insisting upon going?"

Bjorn sat up in bed, his feet on the floor and his hands on his knees as he stared wearily at the tent's dirt floor. Torvi was behind him on the opposite side of the bed, a smug look on her face as she dressed in her trousers and padded armor.

"Of course I am," she said.

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. "I thought we had reached an understanding."

"We had sex," she said without missing a beat. She chuckled under her breath. "It is not exactly the same thing."

"Yes," he smiled, "but before that."

"Before that, I said I would think about it," she said slyly. "And I have thought about it, and my final decision was to still go."

"I really don't like this," he said quietly, and he stood, turning to face her.

"You don't have to like it."

* * *

Ita found the Sons of Ragnar a little while later standing at the base of the hill, just out of sight of the city and halfway between that and their encampment.

"Good morning," Hvitserk said with a smile as she approached. "Are you ready?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" she said, her anxiety just barely noticeable.

He did not respond, but handed her the bag which contained the clothing she would need for the battle.

"Alright," she said with a sigh, glancing at each of them. "The plan is still the same, I presume?"

"You take that down to the church, stow it away someplace safe, and go back to your chambers in the lord's home," Ivar said. To Ita, he seemed to be oversimplifying the plan to the extreme. "Then you will just go about your regular morning routine until the time is right. After that, just give the signal as soon as you think you're ready."

She yanked the bag higher up on her shoulder and nodded. "Sounds easy enough."

"Good luck," Ubbe said, patting her on the shoulder.

"I'm sure you will do just fine," Bjorn said.

"Thank you," she said, and she cleared her throat, watching them as they turned to leave.

Her mask of confidence began to fall, and she felt more nervous than she had all morning. Still, she clung to her will to persevere, knowing she had already come too far to turn back. Every step she had taken and every decision she had made since pulling her sword on the youngest Ragnarsson that day in the woods was one step further, one decision she could never take back. She only hoped she wouldn't live to regret them.

"Hey," Ivar said, placing a hand on Ita's shoulder as she was about to leave. "Everything will be fine. Remember that. Just do exactly as we planned and you will be alright."

"I'm not worried," she lied with a smile. "I trust your judgment."

"Right," he said more than a little suspiciously. "Just…don't do anything stupid," he added in an attempt to lighten the mood.

She laughed. "I'll try. You have to keep that promise, too, though."

"No promises here," he chuckled. "Between you and me, doing stupid things in battle is quite a fun pastime for me. Keeps things interesting, and sometimes it ends up working out in my favor."

Her eyes widened and she let out another laugh. "Who will watch after me if all your recklessness suddenly catches up with you and you are killed? Hm?"

"Well, Hvitserk's had his eye on you since we met, hasn't he?" he said lightly, looking over his shoulder in the direction his brothers had gone.

"Not so much since you decided to lay claim to me as your Irishwoman," she said, saying the words _your Irishwoman_ the same way anyone else would have said _your dog_ or _your horse_. "And Ubbe was only too quick to back you up on that."

"Hm," he intoned, looking her over appraisingly. His eyes returned to her face, and he cleared his throat gently. "Well, I'd say you're your own Irishwoman. I just enjoy having you around, and it is in my nature to be jealous. It is so rare for me to find a friend, and I've never had one quite like you."

"I'm not so sure how to take that," she said, smiling at him.

"Ivar!" Bjorn called to him, now quite far away. "We have more yet to do, and we need your assistance. Stop flirting and let the woman go back to her own side of things!"

"I suppose we best get on with it, then," Ivar said.

"I suppose we should," she replied, letting out a big breath.

He looked then as though he wanted to say more, but instead gave her a little nod and turned away to follow his brothers down the hill, leaving her to wander alone back the way she had come.

* * *

Lord Cadhla sat awake in his bed, his head in his hands. He still couldn't place exactly what it was, but something was making him very uneasy. And the feeling only worsened the more he dwelt upon it. He was nauseous and his head began to ache. He got up for the hundredth time since first lying down and began to pace from one wall of his chamber to the other.

Something was coming, he just knew it. If only he knew _what_ was coming.

* * *

After sneaking into the empty church building and stowing her bag under the left side of the fifth bench from the back of the church, Ita made her way back to the house. Undetected, she climbed in a window on the ground floor in the back, near the servants' entrance, and made her way upstairs to the third floor. She wasn't even the slightest bit surprised when she saw her uncle Diarmait in the corridor when she returned, his face tired and his short black hair a Godawful mess, tiptoeing along the left hand side wall, which also happened to be the side where Brigid's chambers were. It was his look of fear and shock at seeing her, however, that made her laugh.

"Ita! W-what are you doing awake? I thought you'd still be sleeping at this hour," he stammered.

"I might say the same thing to you." She smiled at him mischievously. "I might even ask what you're doing in the lord's house in the first place. An early morning delivery, perhaps? Did Brigid need a new sash?"

"A new pair of spring riding trousers, actually," he said. "But –"

"That's not important. Don't go to the market today," she blurted out, no longer able to hold it in.

"What?"

"Don't go," she repeated. "I'm begging you, Diarmait."

"Ita, it's how I make a living. I can't just skip a day. How will I pay for my food and lodging?"

"Just…trust me, _please_ ," she said.

He took a step closer. "Why are you so afraid? What is going to happen?"

"I can't tell you."

"Ita, you're scaring me," he said, his voice suddenly just a bit louder. He looked confused and just as scared as she was now, and she desperately wanted to tell him what was to come. She hated lying to him and keeping things from him like this, but this was for his own safety. "Please tell me what is going on."

She shook her head. "I can't. You just have to do this this one time."

Diarmait grabbed her by the shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "Ita, please. We are the only family either of us has left. We've known each other for years. You can trust me. Please tell me what is wrong."

"We're all going to die," she whispered shakily.

She could see it hit him then. He let go of her, dropping his hands to his sides and shaking his head slowly as he took a step back. She knew he didn't understand fully, but that was enough to wake him up, to sober him.

"What do you mean, Ita?" he asked.

"I can't tell you," she said again. "I've already said too much. I –"

"Ita?" Brigid's voice rang sweetly down the hall. She stepped out of the large wooden door to her chamber still wrapping a long robe around herself and she made her way toward them. "What's happened? Why are you awake? Is everything alright?"

"Oh, she was asleep out here on the floor," Diarmait answered. "She was having a nightmare. I woke her up and was just about to take her back to her room. Don't worry, love."

He offered Brigid a sweet smile, to which she patted him on the arm.

"Such a good man," she said, and she kissed him on the cheek. "Goodnight."

"Night," he said, and he watched her in silent admiration as she went back to her chamber.

"You really are a good man," Ita said. "You're very good to her."

"I just lied to her!" he hissed.

"To keep her happy and safe," Ita said, reasonable enough.

"How's my lie going to keep her safe?"

"Really, the less you or anyone else knows, the better," Ita said. "I wish I could tell you what I've done…."

"So do I," he responded. He was silent for a long time, staring past her down the hall in vacant horror. "Maybe I won't go to the market today. I'll stay home. But tomorrow I'll be right back down there."

"Thank you," Ita said, wrapping him in an embrace. She wasn't sure if there would be a tomorrow – for either of them – but if there was….

In the distance, a cock crowed once. The house and the whole city would be waking soon.

"Alright," he smiled. "Let me go, or it'll be nothing but trouble for me regardless of whether or not I go to the market."

She laughed. "Be safe."

"I'll do what I can." He kissed the top of her head. "See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," she said after him, and she watched him walk away.

With that word, there was hope. With Diarmait, she would hold onto tomorrow all through today, and that would keep her till she could rest easy knowing he had made it, too. She vowed that if Diarmait could only keep himself alive through the raid, from the moment Ivar took the city, she would use whatever privilege or power he granted her to keep her uncle safe.

* * *

Everything went just as planned. She had only to walk right out to the gate, strike up a conversation with one of the guards, and with a simple gesture of her hand, bring on an onslaught of terror and chaos as the army of Northmen rushed down the hill toward the open gates. It was quite eerie how easily it all worked out, but Ita couldn't focus on that. Now, she ran hastily through the blissfully ignorant crowd of people who had not yet heard the guards' cries that an attack was coming, not caring if anyone saw her. Not that they did, but even if they had, she likely would have been mistaken for one of the older children at play.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit," she muttered under her breath as she ducked into the church and made for her bag under the bench. She wouldn't have long before –

"Ita, what're you doing in here?"

Her head snapped up, and there, at the altar, his hand frozen in front of his chest, mid-cross, was Padraig. Her stomach dropped and so did the bag in her hands. She rushed to him.

"Padraig, you have to hide!" she cried, grabbing him by the shoulders and pushing him into the confession booth. "My God, _you_ _aren't supposed to be here_."

"Why not?" he asked as he turned his head to look at her. "What's going on?"

"Just listen to me," she said in a loud whisper. "Stay in there till I tell you you can come out."

She made to slide the door shut, but he stuck his foot out to stop it.

"Can't you tell me?" he asked, looking up at her with his large, innocent eyes.

"Do you treat your mother like this, too?" she said, faking a smile.

"Yes. Ita, what's going on?"

She tapped his foot with her own and, surprised, he moved it away, allowing her to quickly slam the door shut. "Please stay in there, Padraig. Just do that for me."

"What's the matter, Ita?" he said, sounding so scared it made her chest ache. It was one thing to do this to her uncle. He was a man. He could handle it. This was a child, and Ita couldn't bear knowing how much she was probably frightening him.

He pushed the door open again to look at her, but as soon as he did, his sights landed on a large Viking crashing through the door, heavily armed. Padraig gasped, eyes so wide they looked like they might pop out, and he shut the door right away.

"Here," Hvitserk said, shoving her sword and shield into her arms.

"Thank you," she said.

"Hurry," he said. "Some of the men are fighting back, and I think they saw me come in here." He looked at her carefully for the first time and saw that she was still wearing her pale yellow dress, and her hair was hanging loose, not at all fit for battle. "Why aren't you ready?" he shouted, more anxious than angry.

"I didn't have much time!" she shouted back, grabbing her gloves out of her bag and putting them on in a hurry. She reached in again for her tunic and trousers.

He swatted her bag out of her hands. "Don't bother; there's no time."

"I can't fight like this," she said.

"You're going to have to."

A large man came running in at full speed with a knife in his hands, and rushed at Hvitserk. It was too easy for him. With a single blow with his sword, making a sickening squishing sound as metal met flesh, Hvitserk had the man on the ground. Ita had never seen so much blood in her life, and the man lay there motionless with wide, staring eyes.

"You just…" she said, barely aware of her own voice.

Her thoughts cleared just in time for her to hear the sound of the confession booth door sliding open and the little boy inside to screaming a guttural, heart-wrenching scream. She spun around. Padraig ran out toward Hvitserk.

" _No! Padraig, no!_ " she shrieked, her arms outstretched to catch him, but she missed and Padraig kept running until he too was met by Hvitserk's blade.

The same wet slicing sound followed, and as the small boy now lay alongside the older man, Ita realized the man looked just like an older version of her young friend. It must have been his father, and having seen his death, Padraig probably couldn't help himself from coming out of hiding.

Ita looked at Hvitserk in helpless shock, but he paid her no mind and only ran out of the church to rejoin his brothers. In a strange, surreal mix of numbness and exhilaration, she wandered outside. The world seemed to all be on fire, the flames oddly loud over the sound of pounding footsteps and echoing screams and metal on metal. Her eyes darted from scene to scene before landing on the lord's house, and for some reason, that seemed like the safest place in her mind. So she ran in that direction.

Before she got very far, though, she tripped over something and almost went crashing onto the ground. She caught herself. At her feet was a body, facedown. Black hair in a short peasant's haircut and clothing made from blue fabric much too expensive for any peasant to afford. She propelled herself forward once more before letting it sink in too much.

Almost to the doors.

"You!" A boy a little younger than herself blocked her path. In his hand was a long, sharp knife with one serrated section, obviously intended for gutting fish. "You brought them here!"

She stopped and stared at him, wide eyed with fear.

"You work with them, don't you?"

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Oh, aren't you," he scoffed, lunging forward with the knife.

She blocked it with her shield and took a step back.

"You fucking bitch," he spat, still coming at her. "You traitorous fucking bitch, you sold your people to these monsters."

He grabbed the edge of her shield, something she had not expected. Without thinking, she hit his hand with her sword, nearly slicing his fingers clean off. He threw the shield out of her hand and he actually _growled_ at her. She turned then, and she ran.

" _If there is one thing you never do,"_ Bjorn's voice echoed inside her head, _"that is run. Never run from your opponent, Ita, especially if he has disarmed you."_

She wasn't completely disarmed, though. She still had her sword. But that didn't register as he hit the center of her back, hard, with all of his weight and he took her to the ground. She screamed, feeling the air leaving her body, unable to be replaced as his weight pressed down on her back. He sat up and rolled her over so she could see her face as he pinned her down. Against her neck, she could feel the cold metal of his knife, met only second by the warm dripping of his blood where she had cut his hand. She closed her eyes, sobbing a few times as she gasped for breath.

" _Don't cry, either!"_ Bjorn had told her. _"Do not show them that you are weak or afraid."_

"Are you their whore?" the boy shouted, his face nearly touching hers, making her ears ring.

She turned her head away from him and he grabbed her face roughly so that she was facing him again, but she still wouldn't open her eyes.

"Do you sleep with them? Do you _have to_ do that, too, or do you like it?"

"No…" she whimpered.

"Oh, you do like it, don't you? You love letting those filthy Northmen have you. You probably ask for it."

He was hard. She was vaguely aware of this, but her consciousness was slowly leaving. He pushed her skirt up her thighs and worked her legs apart to position himself between them, his fish-knife still held firmly to her neck. He could feel his breath on her neck as he leaned down, and she could smell the putrid scent of rotting fish all over him.

 _That explains the knife,_ she thought vacantly before opening her eyes and knocking the knife out of his hands.

She kneed him in the crotch and threw her weight forward. She pinned him now, and held the tip of her own blade to his neck. Giving herself a moment to catch her breath, she scowled down at him furiously.

" _SHUT UP!_ " she screamed.

"I didn't mean it," he said with a whimper, his eyes gleaming with fear. "Please, let me go."

"I am not their whore, but I would rather be theirs than yours, you disgusting pig," she said furiously, and she plunged her blade deep into his neck until she hit something hard.

 _Bone? Or the ground?_ She didn't want to know. Quickly, just as she had been taught, she twisted the blade and drew it out. He tried to scream, to cry out, but his voice was drowned out by his own blood. She took his knife and tucked it into her belt as she stood. Seeing now what she had done, she turned abruptly and vomited into the dirt. And behind her, she could have sworn she heard laughter. Confused by this, she turned around. There was Ivar in his chariot, smiling down at her.

"Good work," he said, and she just stared back, still in shock. "Behind you."

Behind her, as he said, another was running at her. Without so much as a word, she knocked the short sword from this man's hands and took him down with a swift swing. She didn't want the same thing to happen again. When she turned around, Ivar and his chariot were gone. So she looked again to the large stone house, and made another attempt at it.

Almost there. Just a few more steps.

Just before she reached the door, she felt someone grab her by her hair and yank her backwards, hard. She screamed as she was thrown once again to the ground. Her attacker, the large Scottish guard from the gate, stood over her, staring angrily. He grabbed the front of her dress and snatched her back up into a standing position. Obviously he hadn't intended to throw her to the ground. That, or he just wanted to jostle her around a bit to weaken or disorient her. She swung her sword at him blindly. He knocked it from her hands. He pinned her against the wall with one arm and with the other retrieved his own sword.

"We trusted you," he snarled at her. "Lady Brigid said you was a good woman. You've betrayed her, and you've betrayed us."

She shook her head. "Let me go. I just want to go inside. I swear. I'm not going to hurt anyone."

"You work for them, don't you?" he said, shoving her harder against the wall. "Don't you?"

She stifled a scream. "Yes, but –"

"She trusted you – _we_ trusted you!" he shouted again, and he held his sword to her neck.

" _Hvitserk_!" she screamed at the top of her lungs.

"Shut up!"

" _Hvitserk_!" she screamed again, catching sight of him now quite far off, but it was enough to hope that he could hear her. " _Hvitserk, hjälp! Svá vel!_ "

"Shut up!" the man shouted again, now thoroughly confused in addition to being furious. "I don't know what you're saying. I doubt anyone else does either, bitch."

Something clicked in her and she smiled. Later, when she remembered this instance and recounted it to Ivar and his brothers, she accounted it to the shock, or her fear. In truth, she didn't know why she did it.

"Oh, I'm telling my Viking husband what a bastard you are. I think _he_ can understand me," she said sarcastically, earning a rough slap across the face from this man.

Almost as soon as his hand passed over her face, she saw him hit the ground. And there was Bjorn, handing her sword back to her.

"Where is your shield?" he asked urgently.

She looked around herself on the ground, unsure of how far away she had been when she lost it.

"I do not know," she said.

He made an exasperated noise and handed her his own shield.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"I don't need it," he said. "Go!"

Against her wishes, she was thrust back into the battle. And she had been so close to sanctuary. She was met almost immediately by another opponent, a young woman about her age. This girl had a sword, but it obviously was not her own. Ita saw that it was of Viking craftsmanship. It must have belonged to one of Ivar's men, having likely been taken off a dead body. She wielded it awkwardly and fearfully, but she was strong.

"Please stop," Ita said, flinching back as their blades clashed.

The girl did not respond, but continued fighting.

"I will kill you if I have to," Ita said, "and I really don't want to do that."

"Why do you fight with them?" the girl asked, nearly catching Ita's cheek.

"The same reason you are fighting, I suppose," Ita said.

"And why am I fighting?"

"Survival," Ita said. "And a need to prove yourself."

"Why would I need to prove myself to anyone?"

She made a stabbing motion toward Ita's stomach, but Ita blocked it with the shield Bjorn had given her.

"Perhaps you feel you are lacking in some way," Ita shrugged, and just as she said this, the girl's sword slipped and Ita cut a large gash in her side. The girl's dress tore, blood spilled down her side, and she screamed in pain. "I'm sorry!" Ita cried.

She tried once more to stab Ita. Ita jerked her shield too quickly and sent the other girl's sword right into her shoulder rather than blocking it completely.

"I suppose we're even now," the girl said with a momentary expression of traumatic horror which was soon replaced by a pained grimace. "I'm sorry."

They fought for a few more moments, both injured now and losing blood fast. It was only a matter of time before one of them passed out or became so weak that they had no choice but to accept defeat. Ita felt quite lightheaded already, and she thought she might vomit again. She was moving uneasily now. Her shoulder burned and she had little feeling in her arm or hand anymore. But the girl stumbled first, and fell on the ground in a heap. Her body swaying, Ita knelt beside her. The girl was still alive, but she was suffering.

"I am so sorry it had to end this way," Ita said, tears streaming down her cheeks. She pulled the long fish-knife out of her belt. She knew it was either kill this girl or leave her for someone else to finish the job. And she knew her friends would not be as kind with this girl. "I'm so sorry."

"Just do it," the girl breathed. She looked indifferent, numb. "Please. Kill me."

Quickly, she cut the girl's throat and let the knife fall from her hand as she stood. She saw the girl's eyes darken and become lifeless, and choked out a sob. Everything began to fade then. Her line of sight was limited at best and foggy at the edges. The noise of the battle, too, was beginning to fade away as she began once more to walk toward the house.

" _Te, Dómine, sancte Pater_ ," she began to pray a prayer she had heard uttered at her mother's death, and at the deaths of her brothers; though she had only heard it a handful of times, it seemed etched in her brain. She had to say it for this girl, too, and for all her fallen people, if it was the last thing she ever said. " _Omnípotens aetérne Deus –"_

Deus. That word meant God. She knew that one. Would He ever forgive her for what she had done here today? Would he even hear her prayer after what she had done?

" – _supplices deprecámur pro ani-anima…tui_." She tripped, and she had to stop for just a moment to steady herself. " _Quem de hoc sa…sa…_ " Her throat was so dry, and her mind and body were crumbling all around her. She cleared her throat, but tried once more to continue her prayer. " _Ad te…venire iussís..._ " Her eyes fell shut, and she went sideways, hitting something hard, likely the side of the house. " _Ut ei…dignéris dare lo…l-locum…_ " She took in one more breath, knowing it would be her last, and breathed out, "I am so sorry."

* * *

The raid barely lasted twenty minutes, but it seemed a lot quicker than that. After watching Ita make her first kill, Ivar was very amused and quite proud of her. She was still very soft, but by her second kill, he could see how quickly that was changing. He would have liked to have stayed and watched, just to see how she made out in the end, but he was drawn back in quickly, and soon found himself being led into the large stone house at the center of the town, and down a long, winding corridor where he was told the lord was waiting.

Sure enough, Ivar found him sitting upon a large chair on a raised platform looking just like a king. His expression was set and he looked down in mixed contempt and resignation at the small group of Viking men before him.

Ivar smiled madly at him and cocked his head to the side, saying nothing.

"I assume you'll want to take this one, brother?" Ubbe whispered, his eyes locked curiously on the regal Irishman before him.

"No," Ivar said after a moment, his smile fading. He looked the man over and took a step forward to get a closer look. "I don't think we should, not yet."

"What?" Ubbe asked, confused.

"No," Ivar said again. "I want him alive. We will not be killing him just yet."

"Where shall we take him then?" one of the other men asked.

"Do they have a dungeon?"

"I believe they do," Ubbe said. "Hvitserk and a few other men went down a set of stairs a little while ago but said there was nothing below but dirty water and rats."

"Take him there," Ivar said decidedly, and turned to leave the room.

Two men made their way up onto Lord Cadhla's platform, and fear began to flood into his eyes as he realized what was happening. He didn't scream, though, as they grabbed hold of him and dragged him away. He did not even make so much as a whimper, nor did he try to fight it. He simply accepted his fate.

And oddly enough, his uneasiness began to melt away.


	13. 13

If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita

Chapter 13

When she was finally aware of herself and her surroundings many hours later, Ita found herself in a large, dimly lit room inside the house, surrounded by the injured and dying Norsemen. They were very few, but she marveled at the varying degree of their injuries. Some barely had a few scratches or a black eye, while some others were missing hands or ears or were bleeding to death. Her sleeve had been torn off her dress and it was tied around her shoulder as a bandage. It felt as though it had been burned more than it had been stabbed, and peeking under the cloth, it looked that way, too. She groaned.

"God," she muttered, laying her head back against the pillar she was leant up against and closing her eyes.

"There she is," Ubbe's voice said.

"Ubbe?" she said, looking around for him.

"Yes, it is me. How are you feeling?" he asked. She still couldn't see him, though.

"Fine, I guess."

"You bled a lot," he told her, walking up from behind her and handing her a drink. "But you'll live."

"Thank you," she said.

"You scared Ivar," he said with a smirk. "I must say that I am impressed."

"How did I scare Ivar?"

"When we cauterized the wound, do you not remember?"

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"You just sat there and watched. You didn't scream. You didn't even flinch. He held your hand and he said you didn't even act like it hurt when they did it. But then you passed out."

"Are you sure I was awake? I do not remember this."

"I do, and you were. It really was a bit frightening," he said. "And other than that, he was surprised to see you last so long without armor, and mostly without a shield. He was a bit angry, too; he wanted to know who allowed you to go into battle dressed like that. He was scared of you dying, too, I think, but he will not admit to that part. He seemed pretty shaken by it all actually. I think he now believes you are a goddess. Or a Valkyrie."

She stared at him with wide eyes and an otherwise vacant expression. That was a lot to take in in that moment.

"Are you Freyja?" he asked.

"I am still not sure which one Freyja is, so I'm going to have to say no," she said.

"That is what I thought," he chuckled. "What about a Valkyrie?"

"Are those the forest ones?"

"No," he said. "They are the shield maiden ones."

"Oh."

He laughed. "Ivar will need to be informed then that you are not from the gods; you are just lucky," he said, patting her on the shoulder that was not bandaged, and he left her there.

Ita sat amongst the injured warriors in that room for a long time, just taking in her surroundings. She wondered briefly where Brigid and her family had wound up, and the other Irish people who had not been killed in battle. Perhaps it was best not to know.

"Ita," Torvi said from where she stood a few bodies away, tending to a young girl, "you're alright now if you want to go out to the feast."

Ita nodded and stood to leave without a word. She found the feast Torvi had mentioned in the lord's throne room, and with her barely touched drink in her hand, Ita settled down on the floor in front of the fire. All around her was the Northmen's mirth and excitement, the happy celebration of sweet victory, but Ita couldn't stop the echoes of the morning from crashing through her head. She heard laughter, but in her mind she still saw her uncle's lifeless body face down on the ground, and the little boy Padraig running in horror and unknowingly right to Hvitserk's waiting sword.

At that thought, she was reminded that her own still hung at her hip. Whoever had rescued her from the battle must have put it there. They were all so obsessed with honor in battle, she thought with a tinge of disgust. She unfastened her belt roughly and let it fall to the floor before pushing it away with her foot. For months, it was all she had wanted. It was her purpose, her meaning for living, and what she believed would bring her to glory. And now she never wanted to lay eyes on it again.

"Ita!" she heard Hvitserk call to her much too loudly as he approached, a drink in his hand. "Some raid, eh?"

She did not respond, but watched as he sat down heavily beside her and leaned in to look at her closer. He was very drunk. It was almost humorous, but she didn't feel much like laughing right then. This new lifestyle would take longer to adjust to than she had initially thought. But then, she knew killing would be hard; she just didn't know living with herself afterward would be this much harder.

"Why aren't you drinking?" he asked.

"I am." She held up her own cup, and after examining it, Hvitserk nodded, satisfied.

"You should be celebrating," he said. "We won. We…we took this…" He looked around, trying to think of what to call the castle, or perhaps to remember what the name of the city they took was. "This!" he finally settled on, laughing.

This time, she laughed with him. "Yes, I am very happy for you all. I'm sure you and your brothers are very proud to have gained all this."

"Ivar is king," Hvitserk said. "But – did you know that? You probably knew that."

"I did not," she confirmed. "Thank you for telling me."

"You're welcome, but anyway," he sighed, "Ivar is king of…not Ireland, but, what is this?"

"Duibhlinn," Ita said.

"Dyfflin," he said, and she wasn't sure if it was his accent, the language, or his current drunken state that made it sound like that. Maybe all three.

"Yes, Ivar is now King of Dyfflin," she said, taking a sip of her drink. "I wonder how Ubbe feels about it."

"Oh, Ubbe will be livid in the morning, but for now…now he is happy," Hvitserk smiled. "Free of his wife." And at that, he laughed. "You know, he is probably quite happy for that."

"Hm," Ita intoned, watching Hvitserk lie down on his back to look up at the high ceiling.

"You should celebrate, Ita," he sighed. "At least go find Ivar."

"I know where to find him."

"Why are you not with him now? I'm sure he would greatly enjoy your company tonight."

"I am fine here," she said, taking a slow sip of her drink.

Hvitserk looked at her questioningly. "Are you angry with him?"

"Of course not," she said.

"Then why don't you, em, why don't you go to him?"

"He is having fun. I do not wish to bother him," she said. "I am fine here."

Hvitserk rolled over onto his stomach and looked over at her curiously. "I really do not think you would be bothering him."

She laughed. "I will speak to him when I am ready. He should have a little fun and not have to worry with me tonight."

"Alright," Hvitserk said.

She sat there for a moment in complete silence with only the noise of the celebration going on around them, trying to take it all in. "Hvitserk," she started to say, but he was already snoring, so she finished her own drink and headed up to her bedchamber.

She shut the door behind her and began detangling her hair with her fingers as she made her way over to the basin of water across the room. Having not yet been afforded the opportunity to clean the dried blood and dirt from her hands and face, she was glad to see it. On her bed was one of the white gold-embroidered nightdresses her uncle had brought her at Brigid's request. She smiled sadly and touched one of the sleeves as she passed it.

It was more beautiful than anything she had ever worn or owned in her life, and she had been so happy when she was first given it, but now it saddened her. It reminded her of him, and she would never see him again. But just as she began scrubbing her hands at the basin and the realization that she had not laid that dress out before leaving dawned on her, she heard the door open and shut again behind her almost silently. But it was the sound of a voice which startled her, causing her to jump a bit.

"I came to talk to you."

 _Ivar_.

Ita glanced up at him, drying her hands on a small, soft cloth, but she did not respond immediately.

"If now is not a good time, I can come back. I also understand if you do not wish to speak to me. I...I will give you as much time as you need. I cannot imagine how you felt today."

Still, she remained silent, and after a moment, Ivar turned to leave.

"No," she spoke up, stopping him in his tracks. "Stay."

So he did. Ivar turned around and leaned against the door as he watched her clean the blood from her face and her hair with the damp cloth.

"You can sit," she said, nodding to a chair which sat in front of a small table across from the bed. "I normally wouldn't mind you sitting on the bed, but…" She grimaced at his muddy, blood-spattered clothes.

"I understand," he said, smiling a little, and he took the chair. He sobered again, and said quietly, "I am sorry about your uncle."

"How did you –"

"Hvitserk told me," he said. "I truly am sorry."

She wrung the cloth out and laid it over the rim of the basin, and she snatched up the dress from her bed and disappeared behind a tall wooden dressing screen, barely offering him a passing glance. She appreciated his apology and his sympathy, but she did not know what to say. _It is fine,_ she could say. But that would have been a lie. It wasn't fine. She didn't know if it would ever be _fine._

"Ita," he sighed, "if I had known about your uncle – if you had just _told_ me – we could have kept him safe for you." She threw her dirty, ruined dress over the screen. It landed heavily on the cold, stone floor. "I am sorry," he said again in a whisper.

"Was it you that killed him?" she asked, rather to the point.

"No," he said. "But I can tell you who did if it will make any difference. He can be made to pay for what happened."

"It doesn't matter."

He lowered his head, letting the silence sink in for a few moments. Oh how he had always hated the silence. This silence was more unbearable than usual.

"If there is anything – anything at all – that I can do for you," he said, "or anything that I can get for you that would make you feel better, please do not hesitate to ask me, Ita."

She reappeared a moment later wearing the long, loose nightdress which had been on her bed. It was almost completely sheer, obviously intended for a much different purpose than it would be used for tonight. He tried not to notice. He could see just how red her eyes were and how truly pale she looked as she got into her bed and pulled the covers up over her lap, keeping her eyes low.

"Thank you," she said finally, her voice barely a whisper. "It really does mean a lot, but for now, I do not know what to say." She looked up at him. "I don't really feel much like talking."

He pushed himself up on his crutch. "Alright. I will see you in the morning then. Goodnight."

"That doesn't mean I want you to go," she said abruptly. "You can stay if you want to stay. I would appreciate it if you did."

He sat down again. "I will stay as long as you want me to."

She lay down and curled up into herself. He saw her squeeze her eyes shut as silent sobs wracked her body. He had known that kind of suffering before, when first his father was killed, and then his mother. The pain was unspeakable and completely unimaginable unless you had experienced it before. He knew that all too well. She had lost everyone and nothing he could do or say would ever fix what she was feeling. Only time could fix this, and then it would be a very shoddy, brittle fix at best. Knowing that hurt almost as much.

"Don't ever make me fight again," she said quietly after a long time, letting the tears flow freely now. "Don't ever make me a part of another one of your plans."

"I promise you, you won't ever have to do anything like this again," he said.


	14. 14

If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita

Chapter 14

Shoulders back, head held high, spine straight and _don't limp._

That was what Ita kept repeating to herself as she made her way down the long, winding spiral staircase into the basement, one large Northman in front of her, and another behind her. She was dressed for battle, it seemed, in her long trousers, her tunic, and her heavy padded armor. Her sword hung at her hip heavily and tucked in the other side of her belt was a knife. Not the small fish knife which she had taken in battle. That one was long gone, thank the gods, though she still saw it every night in her more than fitful dreams.

"Alright," the guard ahead of her said, "watch your step. We've made it to the bottom, but there's a puddle."

Sure enough, he was right. There was a large puddle of water on the cold stone floor at the bottom of an incline. She didn't want to know what it was, but thanks to the putrid stench of piss and shit and decay which permeated the air, she had an idea.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" the guard behind her asked, stepping up beside her as they continued on toward the back.

She did not answer, but gave him a stern look. He sighed and gave her a small nod. It was not his place to doubt her.

"Come on, you," the first guard said when they reached the last barred cell, banging the hilt of his sword against the iron. "Present yourself."

"He can't understand you," the second guard said.

"'Course not," he responded with a smirk. "That's why we brought her, right?" He knocked on the bars again. "Come on out. We don't have all day."

Ita raised her hand and the guards took a step back. Inside the cell, she saw only darkness at first, but when she came a little closer, she could see the dim outline of a man sitting straight and tall on the floor against the back wall. Even there on the wet, filth-covered floor of a prison cell, this man did his best to remain regal and proper. His hands were folded in his lap and his chin was held high. But at the sight of Ita, he leaned into the little bit of light cast in by one of the torches that lined the walls outside the cells.

She gestured for the guards to unlock the cell for her to enter.

"Who have we today?" the prisoner asked in his own tongue. "The lame, timid, _idiot_ peasant girl? Or the lying whore who sold us to the Northmen?" The corners of his lips twitched into a smile as he looked her over. "Looks to me like the latter."

"Lord Cadhla," she said slowly, coming to stand at his feet. "I am not here for you to insult me, though you may if it makes you feel any better."

He scoffed. "What are you here for then?"

"I am here to collect you and to bring you out to the square," she responded.

"For my martyrdom?" he asked. There was a notable hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"Execution, I believe, is the term which has been assigned to it," she said.

"Assassination's closer," he said.

"I don't believe it is. An assassination requires an element of surprise," she said. "I think nine months is a sufficient enough amount of time for it to set in."

"Hm," he intoned huffily, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Whatever it is, you will pay for it."

She cocked her head to the side, but he did not respond immediately. Instead, he sat up once more and tucked his feet under him and he scrutinized her more closely, his eyes narrowed.

"What would your uncle think of this?" Cadhla mused. "His sweet little niece, his pride and joy, the only real friend he's ever truly had – his words, not mine, you see." He laughed bitterly. "She has been so terribly naughty. Fell in with a bad lot; the worst lot, really. Then she went and turned her own people over to them."

"I've heard all this before," she said, her voice becoming just a touch anxious as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "From you and everyone else."

"Oh, but that's not even the best part." He got up and took a step closer so that he was standing over her, looking at her from a downward angle. "What would he say if he heard that his precious Ita had not only done all that, but had _conformed_ to this heathen lifestyle?"

She took a step back, but Cadhla came closer. From the corner of her eyes, she could see one of her men drawing his sword. She stayed him with a low gesture of her hand.

"That she is now right hand to their king?" the former Lord went on. "What about that she beds the king every night?" Seeing her reaction, his eyes lit up. "Oh! You didn't think I'd heard that, did you? Yes, word travels fast here, even among slaves and prisoners. You'd be surprised. Yes, the girl who brings me my food tells me lots. She says that you can be found in his chambers most mornings, or he in yours. Shame you haven't earned the title of queen yet, after all you've probably done to get this far."

"Shut up," she spat.

"That's not even the worst of the rumors, Ita," he said. "And by far the least colorful. Did you know there are some that would call you a witch? Funny, I think. You do have the hair to match, of course, but my personal favorites are the ones that call you a pagan goddess or a demon. Those are the _really_ creative ones. Much better than 'whore' and 'bitch' in my opinion."

"Shut up," she said again.

"None of us like hearing of our own sins, love," he said with a laugh. He traced a slow, gentle line over her jaw with his fingertips, making her squirm and take a step back. "Least of all those of us who think so highly of ourselves, as you no doubt do. Right hand to the king…captain of the guard…most favored advisor and all that."

"Is there a point to any of this?" she asked.

"Oh, I'd say so," he smirked. "Just to get inside your head."

"Do you think it's working?" she asked in a tone she hoped came off as mocking.

He chuckled. "Oh, I know it is."

"Go to hell."

"Oh, I am, very soon, love," he said. "And I'll be waiting for you."

He turned as though he were about to go back to his corner, giving her the chance to release some of the muscles she had tensed and unbrace herself. Then he lunged at her, and he pinned her to the wall.

"You will pay for what you have done to me," he growled, "and to my family and my people – _our_ people. May they never forgive you and never forget what it is you've done."

She struggled to get away, but he shoved her harder. "Let me go," she breathed shakily.

"I will, but let me tell you this: even God will not forgive you for this. You've killed your uncle, countless others, and now you've killed me."

He tugged the knife from her belt and raised it. For a split second, fear filled her and she wanted to scream or cry out, but she stopped, stunned at what she saw in his eyes. He wasn't going to do it. She knew from all her previous visits that he was not a violent man, and she could see now that he had no intention of harming her. But that one act was enough to send both guards flying into the cell. She felt him let go right before one of the guards threw him into the back wall while the other took the blade from his hands. The first slashed through the old man's neck with his sword with a quick, wet squelch.

Ita stood frozen against the far wall, her heart pounding and her breath barely coming out at all. She blinked once, then twice before her stomach turned on her. She doubled over, but nothing came up but a sob.

"Ita, go upstairs," one of the guards said in the Northman's gruff language. She looked up at him dumbly, and he said it again, louder this time: "Ita! Go upstairs _now_!"

"Alright," she said, nodding slowly, and she made her way back toward the stairs. At the base, she stopped, watching the puddle as thick, red blood now came to join it. "Alright." She let out a heavy breath and heaved herself up to the first step, careful not to step in the puddle, and rushed up the staircase.

"Bjorn Ironside was right," she heard one of the guards say below her. "She was not ready."

"Yes, but Bjorn Ironside is not King of Dyfflin."

* * *

Ita tried to busy herself enough to forget about what had happened earlier that morning. She did her duties, which mostly consisted of sitting with Ivar and listening to his plans while offering advice here and there, translating for him, and overall just trying to be as helpful and as least hands-on as possible. Her men were right, she realized, she was not ready. She was not fit for that side of her job. Not yet.

She sat with Ivar at dinner, and again afterward when they went to meet with his brothers. Yol was coming up soon, and that was all they wanted to talk about. And with no raids in the foreseeable future, Yol was a good subject. Anyway, it got Ita's mind off of the things which plagued it. She barely listened, though, and didn't say much. There were too many words there which she still did not quite understand, and many others which seemed distasteful to her. But their happiness and excitement made her feel alright. It made her feel safe and content.

After their meeting, Ita went with Ivar back to his chambers, which may as well have been _their_ chambers. She had her own, of course, and she had stayed there at first, and he with her for about a fortnight before asking to be moved to his own chambers. She had tried sleeping alone, but the nightmares were too strong and the only thing that seemed to quell them was having someone beside her. So she began to sneak into his room by night.

Now that her lady's maids and his servants began to talk, though, there was no point in hiding it, and she went with him openly. She only wished that they would believe her when she tried to explain the situation to them.

"You did not say much this evening," he said to her as he sat on the bed unfastening his braces.

She sat across the room de-plaiting her hair. "I am sorry."

"Do not apologize," he said. "Is everything alright?"

"I just had a rough morning. That is all."

"Does it have anything to do with Lord Cadhla attacking you?" he pressed.

Her shoulders drooped. "They told you?"

"Of course they told me." One of his braces clanged noisily to the floor and he kicked it under the bed with the leg that was still in its brace. "I wanted to know why the bastard had not been brought out for execution."

"Are you angry?" she asked hesitantly. She came to sit beside him and help him with the second brace, which was a bit trickier to get off, then she pushed it under the bed with the other.

"Do you think I wanted them to let him kill you?" he asked, and she did not answer. "Of course I am not angry."

She went behind the changing screen to change into one of her nightdress while he removed his trousers and traded his tunic for a nightshirt.

"I just don't know if I am quite myself yet," she said after a moment. "I know I should be better by now, but I don't really feel like I am."

He sighed. "I have little experience with this…but even the strongest warriors heal at their own pace, Ita. I am not worried. You will be alright soon enough. You are already getting so much better."

She came back out and went to sit on her side of the bed, looking down at her feet which hung down, several inches above the floor. They were still her feet, which were still connected to her legs and her body. She liked to remind herself every so often that everything was still her, despite her head which hardly ever felt like her own anymore.

"I hope you are right," she said.

The bed shifted a little and she could feel it sinking a little more behind her as he moved closer. He rubbed one of her arms comfortingly and laid his head on her shoulder, pulling her in with his other arm.

"We are leaving for Kattegat in three days," he said.

"So close to Yol?" she asked. "Will you be back in time?"

"We are going to Kattegat _for_ Yol," he said, and he craned his neck to look at her face. "Weren't you listening earlier?"

"A little," she said sheepishly, not wanting to admit that she had not, in fact, been listening very well at all.

He sighed, wanting to be upset but unable to be. "Well we are going to Kattegat for Yol, Ita. Isn't that exciting?" he said in a teasing voice.

"I think you will enjoy going home and seeing your friends and family again," she said. "That will be very nice for you."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You are going, too, of course," he said.

"Am I?" She was genuinely surprised. She never would have expected he would allow her to travel when she could barely manage a trip down to the cellar to talk to a prisoner.

"I was hoping you would."

"I would love to go," she said. "I have been thinking about what it would be like for a long time."

"Kattegat?" he asked.

"Traveling," she answered. "Sailing, leaving this country. And…I have also been thinking about what kind of a place must have produced such men as the Sons of Ragnar."

He smiled. "I think you will like it. Anyway, a change in scenery might be very good for you. It might be just the thing to get you back on your feet."

"You think so?"

"I do," he said, and he kissed her neck.

His tongue ran over her skin slowly and he let his hands wander over her torso. She sighed, placing her hand on the back of his head, and she leaned back against his chest. One of his hands found the string on the top of her nightgown and he untied it.

"Wait," she said softly, but she did not move, giving him time to back down first before she pulled away.

He let his forehead fall onto her shoulder and he squeezed his eyes shut. A small, tired laugh escaped his lips and he moved back to his side of the bed.

"I should go," she said, starting to stand, but he placed his hand on hers.

"No," he said. "I shouldn't have tried anything. I know you aren't ready."

She turned around to face him then. She had one hand over her chest, holding the top closed before she had the chance to tie it again. Her eyes were sad and her brow was furrowed.

"If I shouldn't have to apologize for things that are not my fault, you shouldn't either," she said to him.

"How was that not my fault? I certainly didn't ask permission."

"Yes, but I didn't tell you to stop sooner and I should have," she said. "Anyway, that isn't exactly why I stopped you. I am ready…I think I am, at least, but…"

"But what?" he asked, confused. If she was ready, what was holding her back?

"I am bleeding," she whispered.

For a moment, it didn't register. When it finally did, he nodded.

"Oh," he said evenly. "That does not bother me."

"Really?"

"It would not be the first time I ended up covered in blood that was not my own," he said, a cheeky grin adorning his face as he leaned in to peck her on the lips.

She smacked his arm playfully. "You are disgusting."

"I am a man," he said, and she couldn't tell if he was correcting her or agreeing with her.

"It is dirty and you know it," she said.

He shrugged. "It is natural."

"It is _wrong_."

"Says who? Your God? Certainly not mine, and not any of the men who have existed before me."

"Yes, my God says that it is wrong," she said. "According to the bible, I am unclean, and if you lie with me you will be unclean and the bed will be unclean."

"From what I have heard – not just from you, but from others – this bible sounds like a terrible book," he said. He threw the covers back and moved so that his legs were straight out in front of him when he lay down, and he pulled the covers back over himself. "Remind me never to read it," he added with a smirk, making her laugh.

She lay down beside him, pulling the blankets almost all the way up to her neck. "Not only that," she sighed. "My brother Fergus told me that if a woman has intercourse with a man while she is in this condition, terrible things can happen."

"Like what?"

"Well," she said, and she sat up again to blow the candle out, "if a woman lies with a man while she is bleeding, she can become heavy with child and give birth to a monster, or a witch, or a baby with red hair."

He laughed loudly. "What a silly notion."

"Why do you say that?"

"You have red hair," Ivar said.

"I do. And Domnall, one of my other brothers, told me that was why," she said, sounding quite serious.

"What did your mother say?"

"I didn't dare ask her! How could I?"

"She would have told you it was just a silly story your brothers told you to scare you," he said. "A woman cannot conceive a child while she is bleeding anyhow."

"Yes she can!"

"Of course she can't," he said. "It isn't possible. I've never known it to happen."

She yawned. "You are not a woman. How could you know?"

"Go to sleep, Ita," he said, yawning now, too. He wrapped his arms around her. "We can ask Hvitserk tomorrow what he thinks."

"No!" she said in a loud whisper. "I don't want to ask him."

"Then I will," he said. "You can ask Torvi or one of the other women. Now go to sleep. I am tired. You are, too."


	15. 15

If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita

Chapter 15

"Ita, we're leaving."

Ivar opened the door to her chamber to see her standing there, her bag in one hand and a rope in the other, at the end of which stood a great, gray beast. The mongrel she had rescued from the stables a few days after the raid and begged him, tears in her eyes, to let her keep it. Reluctantly, he had let her, but when he did, he had no idea how much trouble that one decision would bring him. Not only did she insist on keeping the monstrosity indoors, she also let it sleep in their bed on rainy nights, gave it food from the table, and let it have free reign of the whole house. There was no way he was going to let her take it with them to Kattegat.

"You are not bringing that," he said.

"Why not? Seamus would like to see Norway as much as I would," he said.

"It will be too cold for him," Ivar said, unmoved.

"He has lots of warm fur. It's even thickened in the winter," she said. "I'm sure he would be alright."

"I don't want him on the boat."

"Why not?"

"Where will he shit?"

"Where do _you_ shit?"

His eyes widened, but he said nothing.

"Please, Ivar," she said, her voice a little quieter.

"No. Take him down to the stables or I will," he said.

"He doesn't like the stables. They remind him of Padraig."

"How do you know what anything reminds him of?"

"Because he whines and cries and looks everywhere for him! It is truly pitiful. Come now and I'll show you, then you will see that he _must_ come with us."

Ivar rolled his eyes and turned to leave. "We will be heading out in half an hour. Have the dog down in the stables by that time or we will leave without you."

"You wouldn't."

He sighed, looking back at her over his shoulder. "No, I wouldn't, but I thought I might as well try saying it. Take the dog to the stables, Ita. He cannot come."

* * *

At the harbor, here was a strong smell of salt on the air, and a strange sound like a constant roaring on the wind. The boat rocked, tossing Ita from side to side so that she was unable to stand for very long, even when first boarding.

"You do not have to stand much on a boat, little one," Ivar chuckled, walking behind her with one hand on her back to steady her. "Do not worry. Keep walking."

"Where?"

"To the back for now," he said. "It will be quietest and the least crowded."

She stepped over a bag and a large pile of rope and made her way to the back of the boat. It seemed the rocking was just as bad there, maybe worse. Uneasily, she stood, looking out in hopes of seeing just how far the sea stretched or if she could see how far their destination was. But there was only the fog, and a lot of it, with not enough sunlight to break through.

Ivar touched her shoulder. "You may sit now," he whispered.

He sat carefully then, and she sat close beside him, huddled against his shoulder for warmth. Already it was so cold, she realized.

"He's got to tell her when she can sit?" she heard a woman scoff down below on the main deck.

"Always said she was as good as a bitch," another said with a snigger.

"Hey," a man's voice said, soft but stern. "I would not say such things."

Ubbe walked past the two women, cutting a warning glare in their direction, and they became silent. He continued on, with Margrethe taking up the rear, up to the small, raised, bench-like deck at the back of the ship where his youngest brother and Ita sat.

"What do you think, Ita? Is this not a fine ship?" Ubbe said brightly. "Is this not a wonderful morning to be sailing?"

"It is a fine ship," she said, "but the constant motion is making me feel ill and very uneasy."

"You will get used to it," he said, patting her shoulder, no less optimistic than he was before. "Once we get moving it will not be so bad."

"I'll take your word for it," she said with a little laugh.

Margrethe eyed her concernedly but said nothing as she held her shawl tightly around her shoulders, sticking close to Ubbe. Since hearing the stories of Ita's first raid, she had hardly said a word to her, and that was nearly ten months ago. Ita still did not know whether that was because Margrethe understood the trauma she had endured and wasn't sure how to talk to her anymore, or if she believed the stories—lies, rather—of honor and glory in battle which Ivar spread.

Margrethe and Ubbe departed, heading back up toward the front of the ship. Ita looked again to the ocean, hoping to catch a glimpse, but still there was only the fog. It would have been nice, she thought, to at least see the thing which was tossing her about this way.

"Is there always this much fog?" she asked Ivar quietly.

"No," Ivar said, rubbing her arm gently, "it will pass. It is like this in the morning a lot of the time, but later it will be clearer."

And he was right. By midday, the air had cleared, though the sky remained a dusty grayish color and powdered with clouds. All around her, she saw ocean. No longer was there any land, neither hers nor his, and somehow that was comforting.

The hours went by easily. The sails were unfurled, allowing them to catch some of the wind, and the rowers were able to rest and to talk together. Ita watched them for a while. Some slept, others ate; a few even started up a game of chess, which they had to keep resetting because every few minutes, the ship would tip higher over a rolling wave, sending the pieces sliding or toppling over.

"I have seen them get nearly to the end once before a wave comes and knocks it all to the floor," Ivar said, following her gaze to the chess players. "The one who would have won was quite unhappy."

She laughed, and so did he.

"I can imagine," she said.

" _Jörmungandr_ can be quite funny sometimes."

"What can?"

" _Jörmungandr_."

"What is that word?"

"Eh, the serpent," he said. "I don't know what it would be in your language. He is a sea serpent."

" _Nathair_ ," she said.

" _Nathair_?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Aye, eh, it's like a snake, a serpent," she said.

"Ah," he nodded.

"And you say he is responsible for them never winning their game?" she said skeptically.

"Yes," he said. "He circles the entire world, holding in the land and the sea and all of Midgard."

"Oh," she nodded. "Then he controls the waves."

"I suppose so, yes."

"Then he is an arsehole," she said.

Eyebrows raised, he let out a laugh. "That is quite bold to say that here, but yes, he is."

"Do the gods not think so?" she asked.

"I…I suppose Thor would think so," he told her.

"Why?"

"Well," he started, "one day, Thor was fishing with the giant Hymir, and Hymir would not share his bait, so Thor cut the head off one of Hymir's best cows and he went far out into the ocean and cast his line, and he accidentally caught the serpent. Rather than letting him go, Thor fought him."

"Did he win?"

He looked at her thoughtfully. "No. Hymir cut the line, and the serpent fell back into the sea."

"Who do you think would have won?"

"Probably Thor," he said.

"Of course," she laughed. "The gods always win."

"No, no. You do not understand. Thor would win because Thor _will_ win. They will fight again at Ragnarok, and Thor will kill the serpent."

"Thor will kill the serpent which holds in the land and sea?" she asked. "With no consequences?"

"Well," he said slowly, looking off at something in the distance. "According to what has been foretold, he will walk nine paces before dying, too, poisoned by the serpent's venom."

"Then maybe not with no consequences," she said, nodding. "And is there a lesson with that, or is it just a story about something that will happen at Ragnarok?"

"I don't know," he yawned. "I always thought it was a prophesy and nothing more."

"Maybe the lesson is not to get involved with snakes," she said teasingly.

"Hm." He laughed a little, unamused. "Perhaps."

She looked out again, then up at the sun, carefully calculating their direction as best she could with no land markers. Beside her, Ivar stretched out, lying back with his head resting on his arms. He closed his eyes as though asleep. Down below, Hvitserk nodded for her to come closer, so she stood and made her way down, through the labyrinth of lazing warriors and travelers to sit beside him.

"I feel like I should give you a forewarning about what we are taking you into," Hvitserk said, absentmindedly scratching away at a bit of wood with the blade of a knife.

"Alright."

"Because you do _deserve_ a warning," he added.

"I don't understand," she said. "Is it not like home?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "It is much different. The houses…they are more like the ones at our first settlement. It is cold. There are very few Christians, too, and very few free foreigners. But the biggest difference is the people, their mindset. They will not be as understanding as the people in Dyfflin."

The people in Dyfflin did not seem all that understanding. What must the people of Kattegat be like?

"What do you mean?"

"In Kattegat, Ivar is not exactly well thought of. He is disgraced," he whispered, "a former king, and a damn tyrant—and once an exile. This will only be his second time back since being forced to abdicate the crown."

"He did not tell me this," she said softly, shaking her head.

"He wouldn't," Hvitserk said. "A man named Harald Finehair is the king now. He is a friend of Ivar's and of mine, though he and Ivar did have a falling out shortly after the civil war. That is not a story I will bother you with today."

She cleared her throat, shifting slightly where she sat. "Will we be in danger?"

"No," he said with a smile, "as long as Ivar keeps his mouth shut."

"Understandable," she laughed.

"And you…they won't understand _you_." He looked her over. "Why a Christian woman, a foreign woman, a seemingly _normal_ woman is as high as you in his ranks. Why you were not made a slave in his house. They will think him weak and foolish again. All eyes will be on you, at least at first, but you are used to that."

"I am."

"Many may even question why you are not higher, if you understand what I mean," he said.

"Why I am not queen?"

He nodded once. "However," he said, sitting up straighter, "you will be afforded the opportunity to train with some great warriors, if that is something you're interested in."

That was an interesting thought, and it excited her, even the slightest bit. She had not truly trained or fought since the raid on Dyfflin. Ten months since. Almost a year. Maybe she was ready to hold a sword in her hands again. Maybe she was ready for the sound of a blade rushing through the air and clashing with another, for the rush of defending herself in practice, in play. Not yet in real battle. No. But as a game, certainly.

* * *

The rest of the day passed slowly until finally night fell. The air seemed twice as cold at sea, out in the open air. Even huddled against Ivar for warmth under both their cloaks and her blanket, she could not stop shivering.

"Ita," Ivar said, becoming more concerned by the second. "Please stop shaking."

"I c-can't," she said softly, her face buried in his chest.

"I know," he whispered, holding her tighter. "I know. I am sorry."

She coughed once, and the fear in his heart only grew. If she got sick now, she would surely die. He closed his eyes, pressing his face into her hair, and silently prayed to the gods that she would not become ill.

"Aren't you glad we left the dog home?" he said, trying to lighten the mood, to hear her laugh.

But she didn't.

"He could have helped us stay warm," she said, clinging tighter to him, her frigid hands practically stinging his bare skin under his tunic where they had sought refuge from the cold.

He couldn't help but think now more than ever that he had killed her. They were barely halfway to Kattegat and already she could not stand the cold. She was going to die at sea, and not even from some storm or an ocean raid, but from the cold. From the damn cold. And Rán would take her from him nonetheless, if she were to die out here. He only felt thankful that the rain had not started up, as it would no doubt before they got there. There was almost always rain this time of year in the Faroes, where they were headed, and by the gods, he hated that he had to make that stop now.

"I am sorry," he whispered. "It was wrong of me to bring you. We should have stayed home."

"N-no," she said. "You must want to-to see your home again. And I wanted to go."

"I know," he said, rubbing her arm, hoping the friction might do her some good.

Eventually, she fell asleep and her shivering subsided. She was nowhere near warm, but at least she was not quite as cold as she had been. When she woke the next morning to the sun shining in her eyes and a light mist falling, she sat up and looked again over the sides of the boat, but this time she did not see the sea all around her.

They had come to a dock, but this land did not look terribly different than her own. It was green and rocky, and there were roads and houses and ships of Viking make. There were red-haired hermits trudging along the distant beach, sifting for something in the sand.

"Ivar," she said softly, turning to look for him, but he was not where she had been lying, nor was he anywhere else to be seen.

"He has gone to fetch something," a voice said behind her, and she turned to see Ubbe sitting on the side of the boat, holding onto the ropes with one hand. His leg hung over the side of the boat casually.

"Are we in Kattegat?" she asked.

He chuckled. "No. We are at an outpost in the Faroes, between Iceland and Norway. We should reach Kattegat in a day or two."

"Oh," she nodded. "What is Ivar fetching?"

"Nothing special," Ubbe said with a cheeky grin, dropping back into the boat and heading up to the front.

Most of the crew was gone, and she wondered as she looked around if they had also gone to fetch whatever it was Ivar had come here for. Was it something big? Something important? Ubbe had said it was nothing special, so it couldn't have taken all these men. Maybe they were just stretching their legs.

Ita sat back down and wrapped the fur blanket she had been sleeping under around herself. It was warmer than it had been in the chilling night air, but the air still nipped and stung any part of her it touched. She watched the docks, seeing the people bringing in their fishing nets, throwing gear onto the docks or into boats, hearing them call to one another in a strange tongue. It was soothing, in a way. The everyday life of a people in their own homeland.

She thought back on her childhood, sitting in her brother Fergus's workshop, watching him at work, listening to him hum or tell stories; walking with her father through the woods, toward the shore, to the harbors and shipyards where he worked, where he would leave from, learning bits and pieces of the languages he had picked up in his travels: Frankish, English, and Norse, never understanding why he felt the need to educate her in these things.

" _You call this a boat, you crippled bastard? This is quite an insult. I thought I taught you better."_

Up on the dock, she saw Ivar hobbling back, leaning heavily on his crutch in the cold, wet morning air. Beside him walked an old man cloaked in furs but with no hair on his head. He was a tall, thin man, and though he seemed old enough to be Ivar's father or grandfather, he had the gait of a young man. He carried a tall staff, but it seemed only to be for show since he hardly seemed to bear any weight on it until they came to a standstill by the side of the ship.

"Well, old man, since you decided to go off and play lawgiver in the land of the gods, I've had to make do with shitty craftsmanship," Ivar said with a smirk.

They stopped beside the ship, and two warriors stepped up to lift Ivar into the boat. The old man climbed in on his own.

Huddled in her little corner, Ita went unnoticed by this tall older man, giving her the freedom to stare at him at her leisure, to attempt to deduce just who he was. The name Ragnar Lothbrok crossed her mind again, just as it had when she had first med Bjorn Ironside, and again she reminded herself that Ragnar Lothbrok was dead according to the sagas and to his sons.

"Who is that?" she asked Ubbe in a whisper as he came closer.

"That is nothing special," he chuckled before walking over to the man and pulling him into a warm hug.

"Good to see you again, Ubbe," the man said. "I was wondering if you would be making the journey."

"Of course," Ubbe smiled. "Any chance to go home, I will take."

The man laughed. It was a high, silly laugh and quite out of place, yet also quite fitting for this odd character.

"Floki!" Hvitserk said, standing from his post at the head of the boat and coming to hug the man.

Floki. That was a familiar name. Ita had heard it associated with other words like "boatbuilder," "god," "madman," "murderer," "teacher," "exile," and "priest." She did not know how all those things fit together with this one man, or if all or none of them were true. But looking at the man before her, who was hugging the men she had come to know as friends, she knew he must not have been a bad man. In fact, she would have associated him more with words like "father" or "uncle."

"Ah, Hvitserk Ragnarsson," the man smiled. "It is very good to see you again, too." He looked around, to Ivar, Hvitserk, Ubbe, and to Bjorn, who was still sleeping on one of the rowing benches. "It is very good to see all of Ragnar's sons again in one place." His eyes followed Ivar as he trudged slowly over to stand beside Ita, drawing the old man's eyes then to her. "And who is this, Ivar?" he asked.

"Her name is Ita," Ivar said. "She is an Irish woman I met in Dyfflin. She is the head of my guard, and my most trusted advisor."

"Ah," Floki nodded, a knowing expression on his face. He knelt down to get a closer look. "Ita?"

She nodded.

"That is a lovely name," he said. "This arse of a man-child is treating you well, I hope."

"I…Ivar?" she asked nervously, and he laughed.

"Yes, Ivar," he giggled. "I am glad you so quickly associated that description with him."

"I, em…" she hesitated, looking up at Ivar, who was smiling. Why was he not upset?

"He needs reminding now and then. It's alright." Floki patted her on the shoulder.

"I…yes, he treats me well," she said, looking this man over again. He did not seem to be a threat, but at the same time, everything about him made her nervous.

"The head of the guard, he said you were?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered quietly.

"Well! That is quite an accomplishment."

"Thank you," she said, some of her discomfort fading away.

"Are you an archer?" he asked, and he sat down beside her with a soft grunt. "You look like an archer."

"I use a sword," she said, "mostly."

"Very good. I use an axe myself, sometimes two. Haven't fought in years, though." He looked up at Ivar. "Are all the men back then? Let's make weigh and pray to the gods that this breadbasket holds till we make it to Kattegat."


End file.
